


The Masters of the Games

by The_Last_Mockingbird9



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Hunger Games, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Sansa-centric, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 90,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Last_Mockingbird9/pseuds/The_Last_Mockingbird9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Targaryens were going to have their vengeance. But she still had not expected to hear her name—Sansa Stark!—ringing out loud and clear across the town square.</p>
<p>ASOIAF characters in the Hunger Games universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Girl Who Didn't Cry

The Targaryens were going to have their vengeance. Killing her father, killing her mother, and chasing off her sister and brother… none of it was enough to sate the Capital’s thirst for Stark blood. She knew it wasn’t over the day President Viserys Targaryen had her father’s head delivered to the doorstep of the shack she and her remaining siblings were forced to live in. But she still had not expected to hear _her_ name—Sansa Stark!—ringing out loud and clear across the town square.

The reaping for the Hunger Games was, in theory, supposed to be random, but they all knew better than to believe that. Too often the names of the relatives or even the children of popular victors were drawn. Too often the names of district troublemakers, those who spread the rumors of the _Resistance_ in the Wild North, were drawn for anyone to believe it a coincidence. But Robb had been so sure he would be the Stark child the Capital would use to make their point. He had been so sure that _she_ was safe.

“ _No_! Not Sansa! Leave her alone! No, no, no!”

Aside from the initial gasps, and her older brother’s shouts of protest somewhere behind her, no one in the town square was making a sound. But she could feel their eyes on her. They were all on edge, holding their breaths, waiting for her to scream, to weep, to beg for mercy, to run into Robb’s arms and plead with them not take her…

Instead, she took a deep, shaking breath and made her face a mask. It was a skill she had had as long as she could remember, and one she honed during the Rebellion, when the Crownlands officials showed up at their house demanding the whereabouts of her father, of Robert Baratheon, of her missing little sister, and of her bastard brother— _I don’t know, I don’t know, my father is a traitor, I don’t know, I don’t know…_ It was a skill she then perfected when they broadcasted her father’s execution on television and forced her and Robb to watch. The Capital’s cameraman had zoomed in on her face, waiting for the anticipated wails of misery as her father’s head was severed from his body. But she remained impassive when the blood began to flow, seeing only blackness, feeling only Robb’s hand clutching her own. She refused to give Viserys Targaryen what he wanted that day, and today would be no different.

 _Never let them see you, Sansa. Show them only what you want them to see, no more and no less. If they don’t know what you want, if they don’t know what you fear, then they can never hurt you._ The voice, _his_ voice, was ringing in her ears, as she took another slow breath. Then, with chin held high, dry eyes, and a forced smile, Sansa Stark began the slow walk toward the stage, trying desperately to ignore Robb’s screaming. She could hear signs of a struggle close behind her and knew the peacekeepers were holding Robb back from running to her side. She was almost thankful for them. One look into her big brother’s eyes, and she knew her mask would crack.

“Sansa Stark!” Falyse Stokeworth, with her wild blue hair and painted green lips, exclaimed. Falyse’s eyes darted to Robb for a moment, and she breathed a small, barely perceptible sigh of relief when he finally ceased screaming. “Stand right here, love. You have been selected as the Northern District’s tribute for the 129th Annual Hunger Games! How are you feeling?”

She felt like crying. She felt like screaming and tearing out her hair. She felt like punching Falyse Stokeworth in the mouth for asking such a dumb question. She felt like throwing her body off the stage in the hope the fall would snap her neck and put her out of her misery. “I’m honored for the chance to bring glory to the North, Falyse,” she said instead, forcing her smile wider. Her eyes glanced up at the monitors broadcasting her face the crowd, and she was struck by how grotesque a smile it was—empty, pained, _fake_.

But Falyse Stokeworth didn’t seem to realize the smile was anything but genuine. “Wonderful answer! What a precious young lady you are. I suspect you might the prettiest tribute we’ve had since Cersei Lannister!”

“You are very kind to say so, Falyse,” Sansa answered softly, bowing her head. “Though my hair looks far more like fire than gold.”

“Indeed! What is the say in the North about red hair—?”

“Kissed by fire,” Sansa supplied. _You’re kissed by fire, like Ygritte_ , she remembered Jon telling her the night before he disappeared. _You and Robb and Bran and Rickon, all kissed by fire. You’re lucky. Everything’s going to be fine._ But their hair did nothing to stop Aerys Targaryen from destroying their lives. It did nothing to save them from the wrath of his son either. No, it was Jon and Arya, her dark-haired siblings, who had escaped to the Wild North, or so she hoped at least. “They say it means I’m kissed by fire. They say it means I’m _lucky_.”

“And I’m sure you are, sweetling, to be blessed with such beauty!” The absurdity of a girl chosen for the reaping claiming to be lucky seemed to be lost on Falyse Stokeworth. “And you come from a long line of luck in the Games, don’t you, young lady? Why, your uncle Benjen Stark brought glory to the Northern District not too long ago, and your mother, of course, Catelyn Tully of the River District! You are the spitting image of her!”

“I only hope that I can make the North proud just as my uncle did before me, and as my mother did for the Riverlands.” She chose the simple answer, fearing if she said another word about her mother her voice would crack and the tears now pooling behind her eyes would actually start to fall.

Falyse seemed satisfied with the brief interview and turned to draw the name of the North’s male representative. A new terror seized Sansa’s body, as a scenario she had never let herself consider crashed over her. _Please don’t say Robb. Oh gods, please, please, please don’t say Robb Stark. Anyone but Robb…_

“Ramsay Bolton!”

Bile rose up in Sansa’s throat, but she forced herself to swallow it back down. _The Bastard of Bolton,_ she thought with horror. He was a tall, fleshy 18-year-old with huge, rough hands and pale eyes that sometimes haunted Sansa’s nightmares. It was this boy’s father, Roose Bolton, who sold her father out to the Capital and became the new Mayor of the North. It was this boy who dropped Eddard Stark’s severed head on their doorstep and _laughed_. It was this boy who held Robb down and carved traitor into his cheek, ruining his handsome face forever. She had always doubted that she would be able to kill another tribute if summoned to the games, but when Ramsay Bolton stood next to her on the stage, she knew slashing a dagger across his throat would be nothing but sweet.

Her head was buzzing now, trying to process that her life was now forfeit and that Bolton’s bastard might be the one to take it from her. She could vaguely hear Ramsay being interviewed by Falyse, but it took of all the concentration she could muster to remain smiling, and she heard none of what was said. In what could have been hours or seconds later, Sansa was herded off the stage and pushed into a small room on a long, black train.

She had boarded this very train with her mother so many times. Until Sansa hit reaping age, Catelyn would always take her oldest daughter with her when she was forced to return to the Capital as the mentor for the River District tributes. As a girl, Sansa loved watching the snowy, barren Northern District disappear from view. She had loved the rich, delicious food and the outrageous costumes and hairstyles the Crownlanders wore. It was all so strange and lovely that her mind had almost never wandered to the poor girl and boy on the train for a horribly different reason. In those days, she never dreamed that she would someday board this train as a tribute rather than a tourist, and she hated herself a little for that.

When the door slammed behind her, she took a deep breath and readied herself to cry, but no tears came. Years of practice showing no emotions trumped the sorrow and panic building up inside her. _What kind of monster doesn’t cry after being reaped? Am I that broken?_

“Sansa, we don’t have much time…”

She hadn’t even heard the door open, but she knew Robb now stood behind her, his voice cracking with grief. When she turned, he was trying to blink back tears with a wide-eyed Rickon in his arms and pale, quietly sobbing Bran clinging to his leg. _Gods, they’re so young. Rickon probably doesn’t even understand what’s happening. He probably thinks that I’m just abandoning him like everyone else._

“Oh, my sweet boys,” she whispered, pulling Rickon into her arms and planting a soft kiss on his cheek. She stroked his wild red hair, clutching him so tightly she wondered if she was hurting him. Since the deaths of her parents, she and Robb had raised Rickon and Bran as if they were their own sons and having to leave them behind hurt more than anything else. “My sweet, sweet boys,” she mumbled into his hair, as she reached out for Bran’s hand.

“Sansa, I—I—”

“You’re all they have now, Robb,” she interrupted fiercely, locking her eyes with her older brother’s. “Are you going to be okay without my sewing money? I taught Bran to sew stitches just as straight as mine, you tell the Cerwyns that, all right? We can’t have them spending their money elsewhere—”

“Oh, Sansa,” Robb sobbed, pulling her into his arms before she could say anything else. It was then she cracked, and the tears finally fell from her Tully blue eyes. “I’ll take care of them, I swear it to you. I’ll take care of them, and I’ll keep them safe. And I’ll feed Lady. And I’ll find Arya, and Jon too, someday, so don’t you worry about all of that, okay? You just worry about winning and coming back to us.”

“But—but, Robb, I _can’t_. You know I can’t.”

“You _can_ ,” he said sternly, curling his fingers in her hair. He was whispering fiercely in her ear now. “You hear me? You can win this, Sansa. They might be stronger than you, but you’re smarter and you’re quicker. Don’t give up on yourself yet, you hear me? Don’t you dare! We love you, and we need you. Come home to us. _Please_.”

A knock came at the door, and true panic seized her for the first time. “Oh, gods, no, don’t leave me here,” she wailed, digging her nails into Robb’s shoulder and burying her head in Rickon’s hair. “Don’t let them take me! Oh, gods, no, no, please…”

The stoic beauty of moments ago was gone and replaced by a sobbing, half-mad girl who looked even younger than her fifteen years. When Robb and Rickon were torn away from her by the peacekeepers, she fell to her knees and clung to Bran, whispering, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ in his ear, but they took him from her too. “I love you!” she screamed after them, as the door slammed in her face. “Oh, gods…”

She collapsed to the floor and curled into a small ball like she used to do when she was upset as a child. Her heart was beating so fast, she feared her chest might explode, and no matter how hard she tried to stop sobbing, the tears kept coming.

“Sansa, sweetie, you can’t let them see you like this,” a soft voice whispered, as two thin arms wrapped around her trembling body. “Sit up, and let’s fix you up, okay?” With a small nod, she did as her best friend, Jeyne Poole, said. There were tears in her friend’s big, brown eyes, but she was doing an admirable job of keeping her voice steady while she combed her fingers through Sansa’s hair. “You looked stunning up on the screen, you know. Falyse is right; you’re going to be the prettiest tribute since Cersei. Remember how much people loved Cersei? Just keep smiling like that and using your pretty words, and I’m sure you’ll get lots of gifts just like her. Maybe they’ll even let you sing and—”

“I’m going to die, Jeyne.”

Jeyne sighed and kissed her gently on the cheek. “But you’re going to be so beautiful when they dress you up,” she said, running her fingers through Sansa’s hair. “I brought you something.” She pulled her mother’s silver mockingbird pin out of her pocket, the one Sansa had always admired. “Take this. The sapphires on it match your eyes. Wear it in there. Maybe… Maybe it will keep you safe… My mom says it’s lucky.”

The strange men in black shirts took Jeyne away too, and Sansa was alone again. The tears had stopped, and a strange, numb feeling had taken over instead. After losing half her family, Sansa had prayed for death more than once. _Are the gods just answering my prayers? Could they be that cruel?_

* * *

 

“She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she?” Malora Hightower sighed. “Mormont could do wonders with her if she had any idea what to do with beautiful women.”

 _Beautiful doesn’t even begin to do her justice,_ Willas Tyrell thought wistfully. The copper-haired girl with summer blue eyes and creamy white skin was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. He found himself foolishly wishing he could have met this girl— _Sansa Stark of the Northern District_ —under different circumstances. _Like she would have looked twice at you anyways, cripple_.

“She isn’t crying,” Alysanne Bulwer whispered, tears still stuck in her long, brown eyelashes. She and Willas had been selected as the Reach’s tributes over a day ago now, but Alysanne still had gone barely an hour without breaking down into hysterics.

“That’s because she’s not pathetic,” Randyll Tarly sneered, looking at the tiny twelve-year-old girl with nothing but contempt. Their other mentor from the Reach had hardly spoken two words to Willas or Alysanne since the reaping. When he looked at the cripple and the weeping little girl, it was clear he only saw two dead tributes walking. Why risk getting attached to two kids who didn’t stand a chance anyways? He understood it, but the logic behind Tarly’s distance didn’t make Willas despise him any less.

His Aunt Malora, thus far, hadn’t proven to be a very competent either. Though they had only met ever once or twice before boarding the train, he expected she would still care enough to have the decency not to be drunk the entire time.

“But—but—but she’s _smiling_.” Alysanne looked disgusted and turned her face away from the screen.

“The Crownlands audience is going to eat her right up,” Malora declared. “They hate crying. They hate anything that reminds them this isn’t all just a swell, little _game_. And would you look at those teats? Mormont better put her in something low-cut. That chainmail ensemble she convinced the artistic team to put her last tributes in was fucking dreadful. The North wouldn’t know good fashion if it farted in their faces.”

Randyll shrugged. “Pretty teats or not, that girl won’t last two days in the arena.”

“People said the same thing about Catelyn Tully,” Malora countered, smiling over her shoulder at the gruff man. “And Benjen Stark for that matter. The girl has victor’s blood. I bet they trained her in something. Cat wouldn’t have abided her children growing up useless, not after what she went through.”

Randyll’s response was a snort. “You’re looking at your victor right there, Mal,” he said, pointing to the screen. Instead of the Sansa Stark, the television now pictured a large, ugly young man with pale eyes that looked like chips of dirty ice. “Big, strong, vicious—”

“And stupid,” Malora cut in. “Listen to him. The beast can hardly put a coherent sentence together. Oh, Tarly, has time made you so cynical? Brute strength doesn’t guarantee you anything in the arena.”

He rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t hurt either. You really think she’ll be like Cat Tully? Gods know they look enough alike. It’s like seeing a bloody ghost.”

“No, not like poor Cat,” Malora said, shaking her head. “No, she reminds me of another victor entirely. Doesn’t that smile of hers look familiar, Randyll? Hell, don’t her answers sound familiar? Or have you somehow forgotten about our dear mocking—?”

“Would you two stop talking like me and Alysanne are already dead?” Willas suddenly snapped, unable to suppress a scowl and caring little and less about whom Sansa Stark reminded them of. “You’re not supposed to be mentoring the bloody Northern tributes, you’re supposed to be mentoring _us_!” He shot up from his chair to storm away, but regretted his choice immediately when a sharp pain shot up his thigh. With a grunt, he fell back down, clutching at his twisted, pathetic excuse for a knee.

“ _Hah_! Bloody fucking hell,” Randyll exclaimed. “Here’s a piece of advice from your mentor, Tyrell. If you can’t run, you can’t win. Simple as that. Even this tiresome, wretched little girl has a better chance than you because she has two fucking legs.” With that, he stalked out of the train compartment, slamming the door behind him.

Alysanne began to weep loudly again, as Malora regarded him with sad, dark green eyes. “He’s been doing this for twenty-three years now. Not so long as me, but still…” she began softly. “He used to mentor them all thoroughly, I assure you. But after watching them die time and time again, well, it gets harder, you see. We’ve only had four victors between the two of us. And with his oldest son running off last year and his other son hitting reaping age, he’s been under a lot of stress. We’re all under a lot of stress.” She took a long chug of the flask that never seemed to be far from her. “And I, well, I turned to drink to deal with it, I guess. And laughter. They call me the Mad Maid, you know, since I never married, and, well, I _am_ mad. But how are you supposed to marry and have kids and all that after you’ve plunged a dirk into someone’s spinal chord, eh? That’s my question. How are you ever supposed to be whole again? Take it from me, my boy, winning isn’t all it’s cracked up to me. If you really want my advice, then here it is and listen close: when you’re dropped into the arena, walk off the damn platform before the bell rings and blow yourself sky high.”

Malora stared at him, waiting for a response. When it became clear Willas had nothing to say, she took another long chug of the foul-smelling liquor and collected Alysanne’s small, shaking body into her arms before leaving. He looked back up at the screen to see another close-up of Sansa Stark’s face. She _was_ smiling. But Willas could see it was only a caricature of an actual smile. _Inside you’re falling apart just like me, aren’t you?_

 

* * *

 

The brown liquor didn’t burn his throat quite the same way the clear, black market liquor of the Western District did. He ought to have enjoyed a finer drink, but it still tasted bitter on his tongue. Though most suspected otherwise, Sandor Clegane found no joy in his yearly trips to the Capital to watch two more western children die miserably.

 _The weak deserve to die. Strong arms run this world, and the rest should just get the fuck out of the way._ The words had passed his mangled lips more than once, but he often doubted whether he actually believed them. Sometimes he suspected he didn’t believe in anything at all anymore.

“What did you think about him? Is he a threat?”

He took another long swig of the alcohol before turning to glower at the blonde little shit sitting behind him. “What the fuck do you want, boy?”

The boy opened his mouth, as if to respond, but clearly thought better of it, and snapped it shut again, looking anywhere else in the room but Sandor’s face.

“Oh, for gods sake, Clegane, don’t scare my cousin to death before the Games even start. President Targaryen won’t appreciate having to find an alternate,” Cersei Lannister said, as she swept into the room wearing nothing but a sheer, lace nightdress. “And you know how he just loves killing Lannisters.” The Queen of the West, as some called her, was undoubtedly a beautiful woman with her flowing golden locks and full curves, but Sandor had always felt more disgust than lust when looking upon her. The boys’ eyes, on the other hand, locked on her with a desperate, hungry look in them.

 _Maybe she’ll fuck him_ , he thought with mild amusement. _Hard to say no to someone about to die. Unless you look like me, of course. No one offered to fuck me._ “I’m going to bed,” he rasped, before draining the rest of drink. The room began to spin when he stood, and he had to hold himself up by the edge of the dining table.

“Fuck, Clegane, are you always wasted?” Cersei laughed. “I suppose I shouldn’t talk,” she giggled, holding up her glass of wine. “But how do you expect to adequately counsel Jeyne and Lancel if you’re always in your cups?”

“I’ve already _adequately counseled_ them,” Sandor sneered. “Didn’t I, boy? I told them that in all likeliness they’re going to die horrible deaths for the whole bloody world to see, and that they ought to just accept it. The fucking girl is crying in her room now, but this one won’t seem to bloody leave me alone.”

“I—I—I just want to be prepared and—”

“Don’t apologize, Lancel,” Cersei said, waving her hand in her cousin’s face. “Clegane here is just a bitter brute. Are you even watching the interviews? It’s an interesting group we’ve got this year… A volunteer from the Vale of all places, _another_ damn Frey from the Riverlands, Cat Tully’s daughter from the—”

“Sansa Stark?” Sandor half-shouted before he could bite his tongue.

Cersei arched one of her thin eyebrows. “Yes, I suppose that’s the girl’s name. She’s a pretty thing, looks just like her mother. She has an insipid smile though. She’s a dumb little dove, if you ask me, but all the commentators seem intent on comparing her to me. _Idiots_.”

As if on cue, the redheaded girl’s face flashed across the screen in front of them. _Buggering fucking hells_. She had been a mere child of eleven hanging on her mother’s skirts when he last saw her, with wide, expressive blue eyes. Her eyes always gave away what she was feeling. _Panic whenever she had to look upon you, dog_. But the girl on the screen was no child but a woman grown with a woman’s curves and a woman’s face that looked remarkably like her mother’s. _And eyes that betray nothing now._

“Fucking hell,” he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away from her. He could see Cersei in the corner of his eye staring at him with furrowed brows. He knew she wanted to ask why he cared about the Northern girl but was holding her tongue for once.

Without another word, Sandor stumbled clumsily out of the compartment and into his own room. He collapsed on to the bed with the girl’s small voice ringing in his ears. _He was the monster not you,_ she whispered, as she placed one of her tiny hands on his shoulder. _He is not a good man._

“There are no good men, little bird,” he said to the darkness. _Do you realize that now, little bird? Now that they’ve condemned you to death?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will be primarily focused on Sansa's journey, but there will be a number of other POVs and stories woven together. Additional characters and romantic pairings will be added as the story continues.


	2. The Masters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petyr only rolled his eyes. “We’re all whores for the Capital, Greyjoy. They tell us to jump, we jump; they tell us to kill, we kill; they tell us to fuck; we fuck. But that’s all going to change.”

_Silks pillows_ , Theon Greyjoy thought, as he slouched into the chair and thumped his feet down on top of the desk in front of him. _Petyr would have fucking silk pillows in his office. I wonder how many poor bastards in the Western District suffered to make these._

Most of the other victors couldn’t stand Petyr Baelish, the charming volunteer from the Vale who went on to win and then worm his way into the Targaryen Administration, rising all the way up to Master of the Games and personal advisor to the President. He started out just like the rest of the victors, impoverished and hungry, struggling to earn just enough to stay alive, but now, now he was one of _them_. He couldn’t recall the last time one of the other mentors, or anyone he talked to for that matter, had referred to him as Petyr instead of Littlefinger or sellout or traitor or piece of shit.

Theon didn’t blame him though. If he had even half the man’s cunning or expertise with money, he’d have done the same, as would most of the other victors though they’d be far less willing to admit it. The solidarity the others claimed was delusional at best. They might have imagined themselves as united against the Capital, but they still lived in their comfortable, Capital-purchased houses in the Victory Villages across the continent, and they still rooted for the other districts’ children to die every year.

“Who let you in here?”

Theon grinned at Petyr over his shoulder. Friendship wasn’t the right word for what he and Petyr Baelish shared. No, they both still harbored a substantial amount of disdain for the other but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they had the same goals and until those goals diverged, he was willing to trust the Capital’s pet snake, or work with him at least.

“I let myself in,” Theon answered. “When you have to steal to keep yourself from starving to death, you learn how to pick a lock.”

“What do you want, Greyjoy? And get your filthy feet off my desk.”

“Don’t play dumb, Petyr,” Theon grumbled, as he grudgingly complied. “Something’s up. No volunteers from the Western or Sand Districts? When is the last time that happened? They have kids who train since the day they are born to kill, and I’m supposed to believe all of them simply felt like stepping aside for a weeping little princess, the trembling Lannister brat, and a half-blind girl?”

“The President ordered it. Those Districts were told if anyone volunteered, they’d be killed the second they stepped into the arena. He thought some of the Districts were getting too confident, and he wanted to remind them just how powerless they are. He wants this particular game to be _messy_. He wants to crush their spirits.”

Theon nodded slowly. “So those are the lines you fed him, yeah? What’s the real reason behind all of this?”

Petyr smirked at that. Theon hated that smirk. It was on his face more often than not, quietly telling everyone around him he knew something they didn’t. He should have grown used to it by now, but it still took a fair amount of self-control not to reach over the desk and smack it off the bastard’s face. “This is the year, Greyjoy. This is the year we finally make our move."

Theon suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed, and his hands were gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “You better not be fucking with me, Baelish.”

“I assure you, I’m not. Relax, before you break my chair. It cost a small fortune.” Petyr’s coolness in contrast to his own barely concealed panic only served to make Theon more anxious. But Petyr only continued smirking and pulled out a remote from his desk drawer to turn the television in the far corner of the room on. Short segments on each of the tributes were playing, as they had been all day. The biographies were interspersed with detailed explanations of how this year’s tributes would be competing in pairs chosen by the Capital citizens for the first time in the history of the Games. That was another twist Theon felt sure Petyr was behind, though he had no idea what purpose it served. “We have the face we need. We have the face of the Revolution.”

The statement sent a queer sort of chill down Theon’s spine. “Who is it?”

“The daughter of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark. The daughter of the Northern and River Districts. The daughter of one of the most beloved and tragic tributes who’s graced the screen in recent history. Cat’s daughter, Lyanna’s niece… She’s the perfect image of mother, Greyjoy. And even better, she knows how to lie.” Baelish was positively gleeful as he spoke of the Stark girl, and Theon wondered if this is what the man looked like when he was genuinely pleased about something. “Sansa Stark is going to inspire a Revolution. You wouldn’t believe how much work it took to convince the President to pick her instead of the son, but I didn’t think Robb Stark would have the same effect.”

_Why? Because you didn’t want to fuck_ him _?_ “How did the Targaryens ever even allow that marriage to happen?” Theon asked. Marriages between people of different districts simply didn’t occur. Even if he were to fall in love with one of the victors from a different district, he knew the Capital would kill them both before it got very far.

Petyr looked take aback by the question. “I suppose you’re too young to remember that mess. Rickard Stark was the Mayor of Northern District back then. He was a uniquely ambitious man, the first who dared to reach across district lines without the Capital’s permission to try to bolster the North’s prosperity. The Capital figured it all out rather quickly—someone _always_ talks, remember that. They wanted to punish him. It’s no coincidence that Rickard Stark had four children, and three of them were selected for the Games. Brandon Stark, the oldest son and Rickard’s favorite, was chosen first, the same year as Cat Tully. The two formed an alliance of sorts on the first day and—and developed a certain _fondness_ for each other.”

“They fell in love?”

Petyr’s jaw clenched. “I suppose you could say that. But he sacrificed himself for Cat in the end, and she was declared the victor. During her Victory Tour, she met Brandon’s younger brother Eddard. She presented him with the token Brandon had worn in the arena. The two apparently shared a similar connection as her and Brandon because she returned to the River District pregnant with Stark’s spawn.”

“Seven hells.”

“Yes, indeed. The districts thought they would be killed for it, but the Targaryens were cleverer back then and decided to play a longer game. They thought themselves remarkably subtle, but I could tell what they were doing even as a fourteen-year-old boy in the Vale. They let Catelyn and Eddard marry, and they broadcasted it on television for everyone to see because they planned on sacrificing Eddard to the arena. They planned on turning their love story into a tragedy.”

Even Theon had to concede that would have made for compelling television. “So what went wrong?”

“Lyanna Stark ruined everything,” he spat. “I volunteered for the Games the year after Catelyn’s victory. Rhaegar Targaryen, the President’s oldest son, came on my Victory Tour. It was during the stop in the North that he fell in love with Lyanna Stark. And—”

“The President found out and wanted to take her away from his son, didn’t he?” Theon cut in, eyes wide. “That’s why Lyanna’s name was chosen.”

“And that was the year Eddard Stark turned nineteen. They thought calling both the Stark siblings the same year would be too obvious, and the next year he was ineligible for the Reaping, so the plan to pull him and Catelyn apart was never executed. But the Capital’s idiocy in that matter will be our gain.”

“I still don’t see it,” Theon said. “She’s pretty enough, I suppose, but she spent her entire interview sucking up to fucking Falyse Stokeworth and the Capital. And that stupid smile and claiming she’s _lucky_ ; she’s a bit dense, if you ask me.”

“She was playing a part. You do the same with your clients often enough, you should be able to see the signs.”

_Your clients._ Theon felt a familiar fury flare up in his gut. Calling them clients made it sound as if he had some choice in the matter. The Capital had been using him as one of their personal prostitutes since he won his game two years ago, and Theon wanted to watch them all burn for it. “Don’t, Baelish, just don’t,” he warned.

Petyr only rolled his eyes. “We’re all whores for the Capital, Greyjoy. They tell us to jump, we jump; they tell us to kill, we kill; they tell us to fuck; we fuck. But that’s all going to change.”

“So you’re going to back her against Varys? She’s your choice?”

Varys Blackfyre was the man who shared Petyr’s position as Master of the Games. Three years ago, to make their job more interesting, the two began choosing tributes and betting an outrageous amount of money on their choice winning. They subtly tried to manipulate the arena and the other players to give their choice the advantage without anyone, particularly the President and each other, realizing it. Varys had taken the first year they played, Petyr the second year, and Varys again the third year. Theon knew all of this because _he_ was Petyr’s sole victorious tribute. He wouldn’t be alive today if Petyr hadn’t chosen him. Without the flood that struck on the seventh day, the career tribute from the West would have found and killed him before long.

When Petyr nodded, Theon added, “So you’re telling me my future rests on the shoulders of a dumb, fifteen-year-old girl?”

“In a way, yes.”

“How are you going to rig it so she wins?”

“She won’t need to win.” The smirk came back to Petyr’s face. “There are more twists than just the tributes being put into pairs this year, but that is all you need to know, for now."

Theon frowned. _Is he planning on breaking her out of the arena? Is that even possible?_ “What do I tell my tributes?”

“Nothing. Though you could possibly suggest they go after Ramsay or one of the other useless brutes first and not to fret over Cat’s daughter.”

“You don’t give a damn about them, about any of them. As long as you get the Stark girl out alive, you’re happy, and the others are just sacrificial lambs.”

“The others were doomed to die anyways and _not_ because of me. Now get the hell out of my office and keep your mouth shut. If so much as a hint of this gets to the Targaryens or that godsforsaken eunuch, you and I are dead men. And know that if I go down, there is no way I’m not taking you down with me.” The warning was delivered with a perfectly pleasant smile and in a tone far more suited for discussing the weather than threatening to kill someone; it only served to scare Theon that much more.

“My lips are sealed,” he sighed. “Oh and what exactly do you plan on doing about the dragon?” There were many things holding the districts back from uniting against the Capital, but the President’s dragon was the biggest reason of them all.

“I have a plan. That’s all you need to know.”

“Well, alright then,” he said, pushing himself to his feet just as a knock came on the door. Theon froze and looked back at Petyr. “Should I—?”

“It’s soundproof, you dolt,” he said. “Whoever it is, let them in and if anyone asks, you were here to confirm the rules behind the change to partners, understand?”

Theon nodded, as he pulled open the office door to find Varys Blackfyre standing on the other side, wearing a grin that would have been pleasant on almost anyone else’s face. But if there was one person who scared him even more than Petyr, it was his partner—or rival?—Varys. “Good afternoon, Mr. Blackfyre,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Greyjoy,” Varys replied, nodding. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Just soothing a concerned mentor about the rule change, my dear friend. I told you when you came up with this ridiculous stunt that it would send them all into a tizzy,” Petyr answered, with a forged fondness in his voice that Theon almost believed.

“I’ll uh—just leave you two to talk, then,” Theon mumbled, before slipping past the eunuch and walking away from the office as fast as his feet could take him. _Seven hells, what have I gotten myself in to?_

* * *

The sound of Jeyne Westerling’s weeping made Sansa’s head ache. She was the third tribute to break down into hysterics during the initial interviews, and she was growing tired of the noise. But as much as she wanted to turn the television off, she knew she had to watch and look for something, _anything_ she could use in the arena.

Harry Hardyng of the Vale District’s interview was next, and Sansa felt her heart beat a little faster at the sight of him. He was tall and lean with sandy blonde hair that fell in lazy curls around his boyish face and midnight blue eyes. He looked like a hero from one of the romance stories she had always loved as a girl. _Silly, stupid girl_ , she thought when a blush crept into her cheeks; _he’ll be trying to slit your throat in a week’s time._

“You are the first volunteer tribute from the Vale District since Petyr Baelish seventeen years ago! What has inspired you to do something so brave?”

Harry turned and flashed a winning smile at the camera before answering. “I want nothing more than to bring glory to the Vale, Victaria. And I want glory for myself, glory a simple orphan boy from the Vale would never be capable of otherwise. I’ve no hope for a life here, but if I win then everyone will remember my name. That’s why I am volunteering.”

_So, he’s afraid of obscurity,_ Sansa thought. She had indulged in dreams of the grandeur and fame the came with being a victorious tribute more than once as a girl, but they had never been tempting enough to make her even consider volunteering.

“Sansa? Are you alright?”

The sound of her uncle’s voice snapped Sansa out of her daydreams. “I’m fine, Uncle Benjen,” Sansa said. “I was just watching the tribute interviews, trying to size up my competition.” She turned to look up at him and felt her stomach clench. He looked so much like her father, so much like Jon and Arya it hurt. _  
_

“A smart move,” Benjen said, nodding. “Maege would approve. But there will be time for that later. I’ll even watch them with you. But you need to keep your strength and eat, okay? Let’s go to the dining compartment and get some breakfast.”

Sansa stood and made to follow him but then hesitated. “Is—is _he_ out there?”

Benjen shuddered. “The Bastard? No, he gorged himself about an hour ago and is now vomiting in his room, I believe. Don’t worry about him, Sansa. I won’t let him near you, or say anything… insensitive.”

She snorted. “Don’t bother. You won’t be able to stop him in the arena anyways. Let him say whatever he wants to say. Words aren’t what’s going to kill me in the end, right?”

A sigh escaped her uncle’s lips, but he walked silently behind her until they reached the dining compartment. Even though she had not eaten properly since her father launched the Rebellion with Robert Baratheon two years ago, the sight of so much food brought her no joy. She wished she could send it to Robb, Bran, and Rickon instead.

“You’re not dead yet, Sansa.” Benjen finally spoke again, as Sansa was unenthusiastically scooping some scrambled eggs on to her plate. “Longer shots than you have won the Games before. Your mother would have told you as much.”

“My mother was far stronger than I will ever be,” Sansa countered. “Arya got all of mother’s fire.” _Arya… Arya would have stood a chance. Arya probably would have won the whole damn thing._

“I didn’t win because I was the strongest or the fiercest, Sansa, or even the smartest. Gods know there were better young men and women in that arena than me. I won because I knew how to disappear. I knew how to hide. I hid, and I watched them all pick each other off one by one. It wasn’t until there was only one tribute left that I made my move. Maybe the same strategy would benefit you.”

Sansa had seen replays of her uncle’s win before. Her father had forbidden her and her siblings from watching the reruns the Capital broadcasted on television every night, but one night when both father and mother were out, she, Robb, Jon, and Arya had snuck downstairs and watched the highlights with morbid curiosity. Sansa had closed her eyes for much of it, afraid she might vomit if she had to see any more blood, and Arya had called her stupid for it. But when Benjen’s win played, even she watched closely.

“What is it like? To kill someone?” The image of a fifteen-year-old Benjen dropping an axe on to a blonde girl’s head flashed across her mind.

Benjen visibly gulped and looked away from her. “It depends on the person, I suppose,” he said, his voice scarcely more than a murmur. “Some of the victors live relatively normal lives, so they must have found a way to forget. Your mother managed to have a life. But all I know is that Myranda Toyne’s face haunts me to this day, and I suspect it always will. It’s not—it’s not a feeling I can entirely explain, Sansa.”

A tear was glistening on her uncle’s cheek, but he swiftly wiped it away. There had always been a haunted look in Uncle Benjen’s eyes. It was the same look that often plagued her mother’s eyes. Did she even want to win this? Did she want to walk around broken for the rest of her life like they did? _  
_

_You can’t think like that,_ Sansa told herself firmly. _Bran and Rickon need you. And what will Robb do if he has to watch you die? And what if Jon and Arya come back, and you’re not there to greet them?_

“Well, I suppose I’ll know soon enough, uncle.”

Benjen opened his mouth, as if to answer, but the sound of President Viserys Targaryen shouting into a microphone on the television grabbed both of their attentions. “Good morning, Crownlanders! I am pleased to announce that for the first time in the history of the Games, the tributes will be competing in partners!” As the President spoke, Maege and Ramsay also wandered into the room, their eyes fixed on the screen.

Deafening cheers from the people of the Crownlands met the announcement. “Masters Baelish and Blackfyre suggested that the Games have lacked dialogue, love, intrigue—this rule change will bring the tributes closer together. But my real surprise for you, my loyal Crownlanders, is that _you_ will be voting for and ultimately deciding the pairs! _You_ will be deciding which boy and which girl you wish to see together, and _you_ will be a part of this truly historic event!”

A wild, excited buzzing answered that revelation, and even Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. “So they won’t necessarily be keeping the districts together,” Maege Mormont said, voicing Sansa’s thoughts. “Well, we were wrong, it looks like you two will probably be split up then.”

_Thank the gods for that_. The message that the tributes would be competing in pairs had arrived that morning, and they all assumed that meant she and Ramsay would be expected to work together. He was a strong young man and stood a decent chance of winning, but she couldn’t work with someone she didn’t trust not to slit her throat in her sleep. She couldn’t work with someone who had laughed while holding her father’s severed head.

“The audience will be voting,” Benjen said, rubbing his chin. “They’re looking for romance, I bet. Love and murder. Ever since the mess with Rhaegar and Lyanna, they’ve been calling for love stories. They’re probably thinking if they shove two beautiful, young people together they’ll fall for each other,” he sneered. “There’s no room for love in the bloody arena. _"_

“You know that’s not true, Benjen,” Maege said softly. Sansa glanced at Benjen to see a pained expression remarkably similar to the one her father had always worn when Lyanna was mentioned. It had been many years ago, before Sansa was even born, that Lyanna had been chosen for the Games. It’s said that President Aerys Targaryen’s son Rhaegar fell so madly in love with her that he volunteered himself in place of the North’s male tribute to protect the Northern beauty in the arena. But that was all she knew of the story, as her parents refused to tell that tale no matter how many times she and her siblings asked.

“You two will want to align yourself with strong partners,” Benjen said, ignoring Maege’s comment. “Sansa, the Hardyng boy is charismatic, but I think Edric Dayne of the Sand District or even the Goodbrother boy from the Iron District would be wiser choices. Dayne is the more attractive one. If you can get him, the audience will—”

“And what about me? I can’t stick my tits in someone’s face and seduce a partner like the Stark whore. What should I do?” Ramsay interjected.

Sansa could see Benjen’s fists clench underneath the table, but he spared Ramsay only a brief glance before returning his attention to her, “—the audience will like the way you two look together, and I have a feeling—”

“You know what, fuck it, I don’t need a damn partner!” Ramsay shouted, cutting Benjen off for the second time. “They can put me with whichever sniveling bitch they want. Hopefully they give me the pathetic, little twelve-year-old from the Reach, so I can just snap her neck and be done with it.”

“You are absolutely vile,” Sansa hissed. She had been trying to hold her tongue around Ramsay Bolton since they left the North, but the notion of him brutally killing Alysanne Bulwer was too much. “Thank the gods I don’t have to partner with you.”

“You should be so lucky, Stark bitch,” Ramsay spat back. He leaned across the table, so close that she could feel his breath against the back of her neck, and it took all she had not to flinch away from him. _You can never let them see you, Sansa. You can never let them know you’re afraid._ “When that bell rings, you’re the first one I’m coming for. And when I get my hands on you, I’ll flay every inch of your pretty white skin off before I finally kill you. I’ll make you beg for death before I’m done. And then you’ll wish you had been lucky enough to be paired with me. I hope your fucking brother is watching while I do it too.”

She made to move away from him, but before she could, Benjen was lunging forward. He grabbed at Ramsay’s long, dark hair and thrust him violently away from Sansa. “Talk to her like that again, and I’ll kill you. I don’t care if it’s against the bloody Capital’s rules, I’ll do it.” When Ramsay laughed, Benjen slammed his fist on to the table. “Don’t think I will, bastard? You threatened my niece, attacked my nephew, and helped betray my brother to his death, killing you would be worth whatever gruesome punishment the Capital could think up for me.”

“What is the meaning of this? Why are you all yelling?” Falyse exclaimed, barging into the dining compartment with a head of half done curls. “This is unseemly!”

No one answered her, and a strained silence fell across the room. Maege stood up cautiously, fingering the steak knife in front of her. “Fuck this! And fuck you!” Ramsay shouted finally, before marching out of the room, knocking Falyse to the ground as he did.

“Seven hells,” Benjen mumbled, rubbing his temples.

Falyse blinked a few times, clearly aghast at Ramsay’s behavior. “What is _wrong_ with that boy?” she breathed, and Sansa suspected she was trying not to cry. “I—I have never been treated with so little respect by a tribute!”

_Oh, I find that hard to believe,_ Sansa thought, suppressing a smirk. The over-coiffed, middle-aged woman with her caked on makeup and ridiculous accent had been the laughing stock of the Northern District since she had been given the assignment. And since the North was the most remote destination with few recent victors, Sansa suspected she wasn’t taken very seriously in the Capital either.

“I am truly sorry, Falyse,” Sansa cooed, forcing a smile to her face. She knelt down in front of the Crowlander woman and gently tucked a stray curl back in place. “I hope you don’t think all us Northerners have such poor manners.”

“Oh no, sweetling,” Falyse said, her face brightening considerably. “Why, you are surely a testament to that.”

“Did I ever tell you how much I like the color of your hair? It brings out your eyes. Though I must admit, I also thought you looked stunning with the pink hair you wore last year.” It was a lie. Sansa thought she looked even more ridiculous with the pink hair, but she couldn’t afford to alienate any of the Crownlanders. Maybe Falyse had powerful friends who could influence who she was partnered with or if she received gifts while in the arena? Sansa sincerely doubted that Falyse had any friends at all, but she had to grasp at any chance she had. _And lies are not so bad, as long as they are kindly meant._ _He_ had told her that once.

Falyse flushed a deep shade of red. “Oh, you are a darling!” she said, as Sansa helped her back up to her feet. “They are all going to love you when we arrive at the Capital tomorrow. I just know it.”

“It doesn’t matter how much they love her if she doesn’t know what she’s doing in the arena,” Maege interrupted. Sansa turned to see she and Benjen were looking at Sansa strangely, as if they had never seen her before. “Did your parents teach you any skills other than how to smile prettily, girl?”

“She can throw knives,” Benjen answered for her, frowning at Maege. “Cat saw to it that she was taught from a young age. Ned didn’t like the idea of it, but—but Cat insisted. She’s deadly accurate when she wants to be, I’ve heard. And she’s not bad in close combat, either. Right, Sansa?”

_In theory_ , Sansa silently added. While she was decent in the training yard, her skills had never been tested in actual combat. In truth, she hadn’t liked the idea of learning to throw daggers in her youth any more than her father did. It didn’t seem like an activity a true lady should partake in, and Sansa much preferred singing and sewing and dancing to training with the knives.

But her mother had insisted they all learn to use a weapon in case their names were ever called. Robb and Jon had been given swords, Arya a bow, though she eventually demanded a sword just like Jon’s instead, Bran a bow, and Sansa the knives… Her siblings never knew about her practice with the knives except Robb. Sansa had begged her parents to keep it a secret, not wanting anyone to know that the Mayor’s perfect daughter tossed daggers at the throats of wooden dummies in her spare time. _Silly, foolish girl…_

The knives seemed a strange choice now. Neither her father nor mother had as much skill with them. But, then again, it wasn’t her parents who taught her to throw. It was in the Capital she learned, when her mother was called to mentor the River District’s tributes each year and took Sansa with her to see the sites. When her mother was with the tributes, a young man used to watch her, a man Sansa remembered used to look at her mother like father did. He was the one that put the first dagger in her hand. He was the one that taught her the right way to balance it in her fingers, the right way to throw it so the blade always stuck to the wall… His breath had smelled of mint. _Petyr_ , she thought, _The Master of the Games._ She had asked after Petyr when her mother stopped taking her along to the Capital, but Catelyn Tully only said they would speak of him no more, and an old man in town took over her training.

She had not thought of Petyr Baelish in a very long time, though his lessons were never very far from her mind. _But you’ll be seeing him soon, and he happens to know your only skill_. She wondered what had happened between her former teacher and her mother. Did she break his heart? Did he think she had betrayed him in some way? The thought terrified her. She already had enough going against her success in the arena without the head gamemaker being out for revenge. _Well, I’ll just have to make him love me, too. I’ll make them all love me._


	3. Winter Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s a winter rose,” she whispered to the air. One perfect, impossibly blue bloom had defied all of the odds and was growing strong and proud in this barren wasteland. The sight of that one, small flower filled Arya with something that felt strangely like hope.

Arya Stark felt dizzy. She wanted to run through the dark, twisting underground passageways of the compound to her brother’s room on the opposite side but wasn’t sure if she could do so without falling over. She had to focus on each step she took to keep from screaming, or crying, or hitting something. News from the Capital always arrived a few days or even sometimes a week late to their stronghold in the Wild North. They knew the Reaping had already taken place, but she had never let herself believe the worst until now. _Wasn’t murdering my parents enough?_ No, of course it wasn’t. It was never going to be enough for President Targaryen, not since Lyanna Stark’s beauty had led to his brother’s death… Not since her father’s rebellion had led to his father’s death…

 _You should have seen this coming. You should have known better than to hope for anything else. You’re no better than Sansa with her stupid fairy stories._ Gods, Sansa. Just thinking about her sister and the twisted, empty smile on her face when she reached the stage made Arya’s stomach clench.

She slammed her fist against the door. “Jon, open up!” Her voice cracked on the last word. The tears pressing against the backs of her eyes annoyed her, and she did her best to keep them contained. “I know you’re in there!”

The door flung open, and Jon appeared with wide eyes in a state of disarray that would have made Arya laugh on any other day. “Arya, seven hells, what is it? I’m kind of busy.”

 _I should have let him finish. He’ll not be in the mood to fuck Ygritte after I break the news,_ she thought, but she forced herself past him into the small apartment anyways. As she expected, Ygritte was sitting on his bed with her fiery red hair sticking out in odd directions and a bathrobe thrown haphazardly around her. “You should go,” she said flatly to the other girl. “I have something I need to discuss with my brother.”

Ygritte’s bright eyes narrowed slightly. As much as they had in common, Arya had never warmed up to her brother’s girlfriend. As she was always reminding Jon, they had no time for love, not while they were planning a revolution. He could fall in love as much as he damn well pleased _after_ they overthrew the Targaryens.

“Fine,” Ygritte sighed. “It’s about time I took a shower anyways.”

“Ygritte, no, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, she does, Jon,” Arya snapped. “It’s important.” He opened his mouth to respond, but Ygritte silenced him with a simple shake of her head. After throwing on her fur coat, she kissed Jon on the cheek and whispered something in his ear that Arya couldn’t make it out, but it seemed to calm him a bit. “I don’t have all bloody day. Get out.”

Yrgitte just smiled at her in return, but Arya could see the irritation in her dark brown eyes. “Always a pleasure to see you, Arya.” With that, she brushed past Jon and shut the door quietly behind her.

Jon let out an exasperated sigh when they were finally alone. It was then Arya realized how tired he looked. The Jon she grew up with had been a somber but handsome boy who always had a smile for her, not this haggard man with dark circles under his eyes and deep scars marring his face. And ever since his best friend Samwell Tarly left, he always seemed to look as pale as a ghost. They lost so much in the last two years, and they were going to lose more yet.

“Arya, you know I love you, but you can’t—”

“You can scold me later, Jon,” she cut in, “But there’s something we need to talk about first. We—we received news from our spies in Westeros today. They managed to smuggle in footage of the Reaping, and—and—”

“Robb?” Jon choked out, the tears already pooling in the corners of his gray eyes.

Arya had to look away from his face at her shoelaces instead. She didn’t think she could handle it if Jon started to cry. “No. No, not Robb. Jon, they picked Sansa’s name.”

He gasped. It was a startled, pained nose that cut straight through Arya’s heart. Neither she nor Jon had ever been as close to Sansa as their other siblings, but she was their sister. She was a member of the pack, and she knew the idea of Viserys Targaryen ruining her as he had everything else would break Jon’s heart as it had hers. _At least Robb could have fought back. Sansa is too delicate for the arena._

“No,” Jon whispered, and Arya could hear the tears in his voice. “No, this cannot be happening!” he shouted. “Gods, Arya, we never should have left them! I should have insisted they come with Ygritte and me. I should have—”

“You were going a fool’s mission to hunt me down,” Arya sighed. “It was too dangerous. Rickon was hardly more than an infant when I went missing. Sansa wouldn’t risk his life like that, and Robb wouldn’t leave Sansa for anything in the world.  If—if only I hadn’t run away, then maybe all of this…”

“Don’t even, Arya,” Jon snapped. “Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. You were only trying to help, and if they caught you too, Sansa and Robb would have had to watch your beheading as well.” He slammed his fist down on to the small table by his bed. “Shit. How did she take it?”

The image of her sister smiling at the crowd flashed across her mind. She could hear Sansa’s pretty words, talking about how she was lucky and how she was honored for the chance to represent the North. “She didn’t even flinch,” Arya answered, surprised by the pride in her voice. “She looked fucking Falyse Stokeworth in the face and smiled, Jon. She said she was _lucky_ and smiled.”

“Sansa? _Our_ Sansa?”

“Our Sansa,” Arya confirmed. “Just like when they made her watch father’s beheading. She didn’t even flinch.”

“Do you think she stands a chance?”

Arya had asked herself the same question. She remembered once sneaking into Sansa’s bedroom to steal one of her stupid dolls to launch from the catapult she and Bran had constructed in the backyard. Expecting to find it empty, she instead caught her sister flinging a set of pretty silver daggers at the wall. Each dagger hit with a soft thud, and it took a few moments for Arya to realize that Sansa was hitting every vital point on a target dummy against the wall. Neither Father nor Mother had ever mentioned that Sansa was learning a weapon like the rest of them. Arya had just assumed Sansa rejected the idea. She wondered where and from whom her sister had learned such deadly accuracy but never worked up the nerve to actually ask her. _There are a lot of things I should have asked her before I left,_ she realized. _There are a lot of things I should have said._

“I’m not sure.” Even if Sansa could throw draggers, Arya still doubted her sister, who had wept for nearly an hour over a rabbit Robb shot for dinner once, actually had it in her to kill someone. “I really don’t know.”

Jon nodded slowly, scrunching up his brows like he always did when he was thinking hard on something. “Perhaps we can give her a little help.”

“You don’t mean—”

“I can’t say anything else,” he warned, giving her a sharp look, clearly already expecting her to argue. “Mance has a plan, and maybe—maybe we can get Sansa out of there. But that’s really all I can say about it.”

Arya felt her hands curl into fists at her sides. She had been at the Resistance Compound, living on bland soup and repairing broken down weapons until her joints ached, just as long as her brother, but _he_ and his stupid girlfriend were the ones who had been invited into President Rayder’s inner circle. It bothered her more than she’d admit that Jon was doing more to secure the Revolution than she was, that he always knew something she didn’t.

She usually fought him on it and begged for information, but this time she bit her tongue. “I’m worried, Jon.”

“How long do you think she can hold out in the arena? She’s quick, isn’t she? I remember you two running around chucking snowballs at each other and—”

“Whatever plans you already have, I’d move them up.”

Jon frowned but nodded again. “I’ll go speak with the President. We’re not letting that bastard take Sansa too.”

Arya sincerely hoped Jon was right. She liked President Rayder, trusted him more than she trusted most people, but he was a practical man above all else. Even if Jon beseeched him to save their sister, she wasn’t sure Rayder would listen. If it were anyone else’s sister being thrown into the arena, Arya was sure she’d argue against risking the entire Revolution for one girl. But this was _Sansa_ , not just one girl.

Desperate for some air, Arya stuck her head outside the small window in Jon’s room. It was installed in the ceiling, and she had to climb up Jon’s wardrobe to get to it. Living underground was gradually starting to drive Arya mad. She missed the Northern District, missed snowballs fights with Bran and Sansa, missed practicing with Needle in the yard with Jon, missed Robb chasing her through the forest just outside their old home.

The Wild North looked nothing like the home she longed for. What wasn’t covered in snow was crumbling and charred black. Long ago, the Capital had claimed the mainland portion of the Ice District died of a plague and that they were impossible to rescue in the heart of winter. But the land told a different story. President Rayder reasoned the people must have rebelled, and the Capital responded by burning the entire place to the ground before news of it could spread. She wondered if the people living on the island portion of the Ice District had any idea what actually happened to their brethren.

She took a final long, deep breath of cold air before preparing to duck back into the room. They were not allowed to be aboveground for long, and only spare groups were sent out to go foraging for food and supplies that didn’t exist. But before she shut the window, something sticking out from the snow caught her eye. It was only a speck against a seemingly endless white and black expanse.

 _Is that—? No, it can’t be._ It was against the rules; Rayder would shout at her until he went hoarse if he found out, but Arya’s arms and legs seemed to be moving on the accord, as she climbed through the window and trudged through the snow. There was a small space by a boulder where the snow had not fallen quite so heavily, and in that space was something Arya Stark hadn’t seen in many years.

“It’s a winter rose,” she whispered to the air. One perfect, impossibly blue bloom had defied all of the odds and was growing strong and proud in this barren wasteland. The sight of that one, small flower filled Arya with something that felt strangely like hope.

 

* * *

 

Sansa sat across the table from Maege Mormont with her arms crossed and her bottom lip stuck out in a pout like she was eleven-years-old again and had just been denied an extra lemon cake. She knew was being rather unfair to her mentor, but she hated being separated from Uncle Benjen, especially knowing he was being forced to mentor the Bastard.

“Look, Miss Stark, I know you would rather be with your uncle right now, but he thought I could be of more help—”

“I don’t see why,” Sansa interrupted, ashamed of the childish petulance in her voice but unable to get a grip on her frustration with the entire situation. “We’re nothing alike. I’ve seen reruns of your Games. You went in throwing axes and swinging a sword. I can do neither of those things. The only chance I have is to hide like my uncle, and you—”

“Your best chance isn’t to hide,” Maege countered, cutting off Sansa’s next thought. “At least not yet, that is. We need to get you paired up with a strong partner. The Crownlanders already love you, and if we keep it that way, I think we can trick them into giving you the best partner available to keep you safe.”

“And how do you suggest I accomplish that?”

Maege sighed and pressed her palms to her temples. It was then Sansa realized just how old the Mormont woman looked. She couldn’t have been too much older than her mother would have been, but there were already deep wrinkles radiating from the corners of her dark eyes and a grayish tint to her skin. It was strange to picture the once youthful face she had seen on the television while staring at the deflated creature in front of her.

“I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but—but I think you should play the damsel in distress,” Maege finally answered.

“ _What_?” Sansa practically shouted. “I come off weak enough as it is, and you think I should push that further?”

“Yes, I think that you should. Look, your uncle and I talked this through. You’re lost if you don’t get partnered with someone strong. Perhaps, if you play the pretty Northern princess the Crownlanders will want to protect you and put you with your prince charming. Don’t you see? It’s a fairytale. It’s a love story. That is what these people want. They don’t want the reality of the game. They want another Florian and Jonquil, and I think that you can give that to them, Sansa.”

Florian and Jonquil was her absolute favorite story as a girl. Every night, Sansa would plead with their nanny Old Nan to tell it again, and Arya and Bran would always groan about how stupid love stories were. But Sansa thought it was the most romantic thing she had ever heard. Florian, an ugly boy from the Reach District forced to make his living as a fool, had been in love with the fair Mayor’s daughter Jonquil his entire life. When fair Jonquil was selected for the Games, the fool Florian volunteered himself in order to keep her safe. Florian and Jonquil ended up being the last tributes standing and after Florian finally declared his love, he sacrificed his own life so that Jonquil may be declared the victor.

The story used to make her weep, and she prayed that someday someone would love her as much as Florian loved Jonquil. A younger Sansa would have been thrilled at being compared to Jonquil, but this Sansa simply said, “That story is a tragedy.”

“Indeed,” Maege said. “And your experience in there will be nothing but a tragedy, I’m afraid. But it’s the best chance we have.”

A few hours later, after sticking to the camouflage and edible plants stations rather than the weapons ones at their training session like a damsel in distress should, Sansa was abruptly pushed into a small, metallic room with harsh neon lights shining down on her. She had been stripped of all her clothes, waxed and plucked nearly hairless, and fawned over by two strange women with purple skin and was then left shaking and exposed in the middle of the room. She vainly tried to cover her breasts with her left arm and the small mound of red hair between her thighs with her other.

“Don’t bother, girl, I’ll be needing a good look at you. _All_ of you.”

The voice made her yelp despite herself. _Stop that_ , she mentally scolded. If she hoped to survive longer than a day in the arena, she’d have to stop spooking so easily. She turned, hands still over her privates, and met the eyes of the woman who had spoken, her stylist. She almost gasped again; the woman was not the least bit like Sansa expected.

She was a tiny speck of a woman, with hunched shoulders and shriveled skin. Her thinning, gray hair was stacked on top of her head and held in place with a gold ribbon, the only garish aspect of her entire ensemble. It wasn’t her stylist’s advanced age that surprised Sansa though, but rather how wonderfully _normal_ the old woman looked. It seemed all the elderly citizens of the Crownlands had stretched the wrinkles out of their skin, giving them a permanently surprised expression, but this woman was almost nothing but wrinkles. Her skin was pale and her hair gray instead of some obnoxious, unnatural color. No tattoos marred her skin, and her clothes resembled those Old Nan used to wear, though Sansa could tell they were made of a far more expensive fabric.

“My name is Olenna,” she said, as she narrowed her eyes and moved forward to more closely examine Sansa’s naked form. “I suppose you’re pretty enough. Adamara wouldn’t shut up about it; thinks you’re bloody Cersei Lannister reborn or something. But, no, no, no… Stupid girl, Adamara is, I’ve always told her so. You’re nothing like the Lannister bitch. Too skinny, for one,” she said, poking harshly at Sansa’s jutting ribcage. “Too pure as well, I’m thinking. Cersei was stunning, sensual… There’s nothing sensual about you, my dear. No, you’re pure as the driven snow, aren’t you? Or you act like it at least. No, no, we’ll have to do something different with you.”

Sansa opened her mouth to respond only to realize that she had absolute no idea what to say. Olenna didn’t seem to mind though, as she went right on pinching at Sansa’s skin and muttering under breath.

“Stop blushing; you look like a pomegranate,” Olenna reprimanded, lightly slapping one of her cheeks. “So Mormont wants me to dress you up like fair Jonquil. What do you think about that, girl?”

“I think it’s stupid,” Sansa answered and then immediately clapped her hands over mouth, shocked she had said the words out loud. She was always so careful to be polite, especially around the people of the Capital.

“Me too,” Olenna agreed. “Bad precedent for female tributes, if you ask me. I won because I was smart, not because I had nice tits—though I did have nice tits, I assure you.”

Sansa felt her jaw fall open. “You were a tribute? But—but how are you here?”

“Schemed and bribed and flattered my way inside, of course, just like our dear Master of the Games,” Olenna said, and Sansa was shocked by how unafraid she seemed of being overheard. “I hate them all and their stupid accents and abhorrent sense of fashion just as you do, girl, but it’s a better life, better food. And I was able to keep the Tyrell children out of the Games for nearly seventy years—”

“Oh no,” Sansa gasped, recalling the name of the crippled boy from the Reach— _Willas Tyrell_. He was a handsome boy, long and elegant with high cheekbones and a head full of dark, messy curls. But it was his eyes that struck her the most when she watched his interview. Sansa could tell a lot about people from their eyes. _He has such kind eyes_ , she recalled. “I’m so sorry.”

“About my grandson? Yes, me too. That boy is too good for the arena, there’s not a nasty bone in his body. Should have been his wicked sister or his little peacock of a brother, if you ask me, but the Reaping has never been fair, has it?” she said, shaking her head. “But you’re my tribute, not him, so let’s make you presentable, shall we?”

Olenna did make her presentable, so presentable that Sansa was dumbfounded when the old woman’s two assistants finally allowed her in front of a mirror. They had woven fresh flowers through her copper locks. The flowers were all shades of soft whites and pearly pinks like the flowing dress they had created for her. It was made of the most stunning pink silk Sansa had ever seen and slashed at the sides with a delicate, sheer white lace that showed off the length of Sansa’s legs.

“They won’t be able to take their eyes off you. Just make sure they see something worth rooting for while they’re staring, eh? Think you can do that, girl?”

 _I hope so_ , she thought. “Yes,” she said.

 

* * *

 

This was, by far, the most thoroughly embarrassing moment of Willas Tyrell’s entire life. It didn’t matter how many times his stylist, an absurd little woman with polka-dotted skin, insisted this was her best work to date, he was still fairly certain she was playing a cruel jape on him. It was already unlikely anyone would take him seriously with his staggering, crippled gait, but in this getup—a violently green, glittering mix of stretchy fabrics that wrapped around him to mimic ivy vines and showed significantly more skin that he was comfortable with—convincing the audience he was worth their attention would prove practically impossible.

The costume looked even more obscene, if that was possible, on 12-year-old Alysanne. Too much of the girl’s skin was exposed, and she was shaking like a leaf, as they waited to be called in for their interviews. The tributes had all been gathered in a large dining hall after their meetings with their stylists. There was a great deal of food lining the long table in the center of the room, and music was playing from somewhere above them. Willas had a feeling the room was more important than just a simple holding room and found himself glancing around for cameras.

The other tributes also seemed to have figured out this was likely some sort of test. Most of the male tributes were congregated around Catelyn Bracken; the rat-faced girl from the River District proved herself deadly with a bow and arrow at their training session that morning. Bracken seemed to have no idea what to do in the face of so much attention and was trying to subtly inch away from the lot of them. He wondered if he should approach her, but if she was reluctant to speak with the strong, able-bodied men around her, she’d surely flee from him before he could even mange a 'hello.'

“No one even cares we’re here,” Alysanne sniffed. “They don’t even think we’re worth talking to, do they?”

Everything about Alysanne Bulwer broke his heart. She was a sweet, loving little girl who seemed to have already been broken by the Games before they even started. Whenever he looked at her, he felt the urge to protect her, to keep her safe from the evils they were about to face. But that urge was wrestling with a far more selfish desire. He wanted a strong partner. He wanted someone he’d have a fighting chance of winning with and that partner was not going to be Alysanne Bulwer.

“We have to _make_ them care, Alysanne.”

He began to observe the other female tributes. Brienne Tarth from the Storm District was even taller than him and built like a bull. If his knee acted up, she could probably even carry him, though the idea of his partner having to carry him through the arena made him feel ill. But there was also something about her eyes and her surprisingly shy demeanor that made him think she was not quite cut out for the Games.

The Sand District’s Valena Toland looked promising as well. Built a great deal like Catelyn Bracken—small, wiry, _fast_ —but significantly more attractive. Her hair was a fiery red and her dark eyes practically shone with determination. Her willingness to speak even with Bolton and the Frey boy was evidence enough that she was competitive and prepared to do whatever it took to stay alive.

There were a number of other strong girls walking around the dining room, but his eyes kept being drawn back to the smiling, copper-haired girl from the North, Sansa Stark. It had taken her only moments to approach the handsome volunteer from the Vale ( _was it Harry?_ ) and the pair of them were now waltzing across the open floor to the music. When Harry leaned forward to whisper something in Sansa’s ear, and she responded with a loud giggle, Willas felt his stomach knot and fist clench tighter around his cane.

 _Are you seriously jealous, you fool?_ Most of the other tributes probably considered the Northern girl rather worthless, especially since she had displayed no compelling skills at the training session, choosing to spend the entire time at the edible plants, fire making, and camouflage stations instead. Most of them probably assumed she was flirting with Harry in a last ditch attempt to save herself. But Willas had a feeling something else was going on. It was the way she looked at the other tributes, _really_ looked at them like she was seeing inside him that made him suspect there was more to her than she let on. It was the way she always seemed to find the cameras and flash a perfectly crafted smile. She came from a family of victors after all; surely she had some idea what she was doing.

And, seven hells, was she beautiful. As she danced across the room in Harry’s arms, the billowing skirts of her sheer pink dress slashed with white lace danced around her, making it look like she was floating. She was long and delicate with fresh flowers in her hair, reminding Willas of the roses he used to cultivate back at the Reach. Almost everything about her reminded him of the roses and summer skies of home. It was hard to believe she was truly winter-forged, a child of the North. _A winter rose,_ Willas mused, _I wonder if there’s such a thing._

 _Stop thinking about the Northern girl and start thinking about yourself._ Grudgingly, he pushed himself up from the security of his seat and tried to hide his limp, as he made his way over to the other tributes. He could feel Alysanne’s wide eyes on his back. He tried to tell himself not to feel guilty, that if she wanted to survive, she needed to learn how to fend for herself. But the closer he got to the others, the more terrified he grew that they wouldn’t even bother to acknowledge him and the guiltier he felt about not taking Alysanne with him.

Either the fear or the guilt inspired him to turn sharply back around toward Alysanne, and his knee gave out from underneath him in the process. With a loud thud, he collapsed to the floor, his elbows painfully taking the brunt of the crash. There were a few gasps and someone asking if he was all right followed quickly by a short sob from Alysanne. Forehead pressed to the cool floor, all he could think was, _now this is actually the most thoroughly embarrassing moment of my life._

He looked up to see the male tribute from the Sand District holding out his hand. He had to salvage what little will to live he had left to take it and allow the other boy to haul him back up. “The floors are slippery, mate,” he said.

 _Like anyone’s going to believe that’s why I fell._ “Yeah, slippery,” he agreed lamely. This, none of this was him. Back home, he didn’t fall over and stand off to the corners at parties. Back home he sang, and played the harp, and made people laugh. _You can do this, Willas. You just need to get their attention._

Just then Sansa and Harry flew past them. “We’re up against three redheads. If they really are lucky, I’m afraid the rest of us are shit out of luck.”

Edric Dayne snorted into his glass, and Valena and Wylla Crowl from the Ice District grinned at him. It didn’t feel right to make a joke at Sansa Stark’s expense, but it got their attention and a few minutes later he not only recovered from his fall but also had half the tributes in the palm of his hand, laughing while he told the story of when he and Garlan shaved all of Loras’ pretty hair off. Even cripples could be charming, after all.

It didn’t seem to matter how many stories he told or how many japes he made, because as far as he could tell, Sansa Stark still never once looked his direction. He wasn’t sure _why_ he so badly wanted her to notice him anyways, getting paired with him would probably only condemn the poor girl to death. He tried to tell himself it was better she end up with Harry, better she share her sweet smiles and summer blue eyes with him. But no matter how many times he tried to tell himself this was for the best, it seemed he just couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. And no matter how many times he tried to tell himself that he was a lost cause and should just try to die with some dignity, he just couldn’t allow himself to give up hope.

 

* * *

 

Benjen Stark wanted to punch Willas Tyrell in his face, wanted to shake the boy until he stopped staring at his niece like a lovesick puppy.

“Maege, we have a problem,” he shouted, his eyes never leaving the television. “Have a look at this.” _Please tell me it’s not as bad as I think it is._

“I was watching in the other room,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, Benjen. I had no idea. How could any of us have known? Has she even spoken to the boy?”

“He won’t stop staring at her. The crippled little bastard won’t stop staring at _my_ niece,” Benjen nearly shouted, pounding his fist on the table.

“She’s beautiful,” Maege said, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Most of the male tributes have looked her way, maybe it’s not as bad as we think. She and Harry make a lovely pair, after all. Maybe—”

“He’s Florian, Maege,” Benjen interrupted. “They’re going to cast him as Florian the Fool, aren’t they? He certainly looks like a fool, gaping at Sansa like that, especially after his face plant. He’s charming, handsome, but he’s nowhere near good enough for her, not with that bum leg. The bear and the maiden fair, Florian and Jonquil… Those have always been the most popular tales. People want to see Florian the Fool overcome his faults to save the Fair Jonquil. We’ve just handed them that story on a silver platter, except unlike Jonquil, it’s going to get Sansa killed. What the hell were we thinking?”

“Benjen, you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Maege said softly. “We still have the interviews tonight. If Sansa and Harry express that they want each other, I can’t see the audience going against their wishes; they’re two of the most popular tributes, after all, and she planned on telling him about her skill with the daggers. I’m sure she’ll convince him.”

Benjen wanted to believe that, but he could already tell by the way the camera kept flitting back and forth between the Tyrell boy and his niece and by the way they kept showing the Reach boy, eyes full of longing and fists clenched, as he watched Harry and Sansa twirl around the room, what angle the gamemakers were playing. With that boy at her side, Ramsay Bolton and Walder Frey and Catelyn Bracken wouldn’t even hesitate before hunting her down and taking away yet another member of his family. Suddenly, he could see Lyanna again, hiding with Rhaegar, as the entire arena stalked them, desperate for the chance to murder a Targaryen and the girl stupid enough to love one. He could see the swarm of tributes descending on Sansa the way they had on Lyanna.

“I hope so, Maege. Gods, I hope I’m wrong.”


	4. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I like risks,” Petyr said with a shrug. “I took a risk when I volunteered myself for the Games, and it paid off. The Stark girl is a risk, and I’m willing to take it."

Robb Stark’s stomach ached. For three days he hadn’t eaten much more than a couple bowls of hot water mixed with weeds and some berries. Rickon and Bran needed to be fed first, and Robb could hold off for a few more days until he figured something, _anything_ out. With only his meager lumberyard wages to live on and the expenses of the woman he now had to pay to watch his brothers during the day, Robb was barely keeping his family alive. He wondered if Father would be ashamed of him, wondered it every time he caught Rickon or Bran holding their stomachs or asking the neighbors for a spare bit of bread.

 _Maybe we should try to run. Jon and Arya could be eating like Crownlanders for all I know._ While he was almost certain that wasn’t the case, he had to believe that they were somewhere better than this, that they hadn’t risked their lives for nothing.

Even if he could have mustered up the supplies needed to take Bran and Rickon and flee the Northern District to the icy unknown of the Wild North, he knew they probably wouldn’t make it very far before the peacekeepers caught up to them.

He also knew he wouldn’t be able to bear leaving without knowing Sansa’s fate. When their parents were murdered and Jon and Arya disappeared, Robb and Sansa had to lean on each other in order to survive. They had to put their grief aside to focus all their energy on taking care of Bran and Rickon. Only at night, after the boys were asleep, did they allow themselves to cry, safely sheltered in each other’s arms.

Their little shack felt empty without her. He used to return from work to the sound of Sansa humming while she sewed or telling the boys grand stories about heroes and monsters and romance. He used to close his eyes and let his problems slip away just for a moment while she sang lullabies to them at night. Since she was taken, Rickon had not gone a single day without asking when she would be coming home. Robb didn’t know how to even begin to answer that question without breaking his brother’s heart.

 _You’re all they have now, Robb_ , he could hear her crying. _I know_ , he wanted to tell her, _I’m trying, Sansa. I’m trying so hard._

A knock on the door tore him from his thoughts. He swiftly wiped the tears from his eyes and picked up one of the kitchen knives. Though the Northern District felt considerably safer in Ramsay’s absence, the remaining Starks still had plenty of enemies to fear. Knife behind his back, he cracked open the door and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was. “Jeyne, what are you doing here?”

“May I come in?” she asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. Her eyes were darting from side to side, as she fidgeted with a loose strand of hair.  “I brought you something.” She held up a whicker basket.

“Of course. Yeah, of course you can come in,” he said, pushing the door open further. The baker’s daughter, Jeyne Poole, had been Sansa’s best friend since as long as Robb could remember. In their youths, the two of them had always been attached at the hip, giggling about boys and gossiping about who had a crush on who. He missed those days and the bright, unburdened smiles the girls used to wear. Jeyne had always been a pretty girl with a freckled nose and light brown eyes, but the years since the Rebellion and Sansa’s absence had left her almost as miserable-looking as himself. “I’m sorry for the um—rude greeting, I’m just not used to—to friendly visitors.”

Jeyne nodded and stepped inside. Her eyes immediately found the television. “Are the boys around? I stole them a couple of candies.”

“They’re taking a nap. I was hoping they’d sleep through the interviews, so I—so I wouldn’t need to explain it to them. But thank you, that was very kind of you.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t come to visit until now. I wanted to, Robb, truly I did. But my mother is afraid appearing too close with you would—would lead to trouble for my family.”

 _I have no doubt it would._ “You don’t owe us anything, Jeyne,” Robb sighed. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I do,” Jeyne countered. “Sansa was—Sansa _is_ the best friend I have. I always came to her with the silliest problems, even after everything went so terribly wrong for your family, but she never made me feel silly… I miss her, Robb, and I want to help.” Jeyne sniffed and scrunched up her nose, but she didn’t cry. “I brought you some bread from the bakery. It’s all burnt or dotted with bits of mold, I’m afraid. It was meant to be thrown away, and it’s really not much, but—”

“Oh, Jeyne, thank you,” Robb interrupted, the idea of eating an actual, solid slice of bread already making his mouth water. Before she could even put down the basket, he pulled her into a tight embrace.

She let out a small squeak but tentatively hugged him back. “It’s nothing, really. It’s the least I can do.” Jeyne sniffed again but offered him a small smile when they pulled apart. “I swiped a stick of butter, too. I reckoned it might make the bread taste better.”

“You have no idea how much this helps.” Robb remembered the days when he used to bristle at Jeyne’s or anyone else’s charity. Sansa had always taken the gifts with a smile and a kind word of thanks, but Robb had wanted to rage and remind them all that they were _Starks_ and Starks could fend for themselves. But it seemed the Targaryens had finally broken his pride along with everything else.

He saw Jeyne’s eyes focus on the television screen again. “They won’t put her with Ramsay. I know they won’t,” she said quietly, and he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or herself. “They like her, the Crownlanders. I’ve been watching the interviews with the people on the street. They all like her. They’ll put her with someone good and strong.”

Though the television had not been shut off since the Reaping, Robb still found it hard to stomach discussing the Games and Sansa’s part in them with anyone. “What’s that bird pin Sansa’s wearing? Do you know?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh, yes, I was the one who gave it to her,” Jeyne said, meeting his eyes again. “Before she left, to wear in the arena. It was my mother’s. Sansa always liked it because the sapphires on it matched her eyes so closely. Mother told me after Sansa left that the pin actually—it actually belonged to _your_ mother, which explains the color of the stones, I suppose. It was a gift, Mother said, that your mother was given some time after she won the Games. And I think—I think that it might be good luck for her, don’t you think?”

 _Why would Mother give something so expensive away to the Pooles?_ But it did comfort him to know that Sansa was wearing something of their mother’s in the arena. “Yes, Jeyne, perhaps it is good luck. My mother did win after all.”

“Most people are already gathered in the town square to watch the interviews. I didn’t think you’d be going though.”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have no interest in what the rest of them have to say about her.”

Jeyne bit her lip, and her eyes darted about again, as if she thought someone might be spying on them. “Most of the town is rooting for her, I think. They’re not particularly happy with Bolton in charge, though they’d never actually say that. But I hear things… at the bakery and with the girls at school. I hear things.”

Robb wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that some of the Northern men and women still felt loyalty toward the Starks. “The Rebellion almost got them all killed,” he sighed. “I don’t blame them for being angry with my family; I just don’t want to hear about it anymore.” He rubbed his temples and sunk into one of the kitchen chairs. “The people from the Capital came to interview me yesterday, asked me all sorts of questions about Sansa. I tried to be as brief as possible; it won’t do her any good for her brother with _traitor_ carved into his face to be on television.”

“Yes, I suppose not,” she murmured. He felt a cautious hand flutter around and then land softly on his shoulder. “But you’re not a traitor, you know. Not in the eyes of most people, anyways.”

“Thanks, Jeyne.”

“Robb, can I—can I stay here and watch them with you?” she asked. “I don’t want to hear what they have to say about her either. I want to be with someone who knows the truth, knows who she really is.”

Robb looked up and smiled back at her. “Sure, Jeyne. I'd like that.”

 

* * *

 

“It will be an interesting game this year, don’t you think?”

Petyr Baelish’s eyes narrowed at the sound of the all too familiar voice. Remaining out of the prying eyes of his partner’s little birds was becoming more and more trying these days. It almost felt like being in the arena again, with the Capital’s hidden cameras documenting his every movement.  “How did you find me here, Varys?”

“Why? Were you trying to hide from me?” Varys chuckled softly, as he eased into the chair next to Petyr’s. “You must have been. I daresay no one has wandered into this room since the President roasted its last resident alive.”

“I was hoping for some privacy. Perhaps I should have known better. The Red Keep is not exactly known for the luxury, after all.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments, both watching the faces of this year’s tributes flashing across the television screen. It was not until Sansa Stark’s face—so beautiful, so like her _mother’s_ —appeared that Varys spoke again. “My little birds tell me the Crownlanders are quite captivated by her. Pretty face like that; it’s not too hard to see why. Ah, she looks so like her mother, doesn’t she?”

 _He came here to mock me._ As a younger man, he might have scowled or sneered something back, but this Petyr Baelish only continued smiling and nodded. People had been mocking him for years—for his height, for his low birth, for his very public rejection by Catelyn Tully. Littlefinger, they called him. _Littlefinger_ —a jape on his height, his birth, his manhood. Sometimes he forgot there had ever been a time when he was just _Petyr_. But they could mock him all they liked because now here he sat, a former poor, orphan boy from the littlest Finger in the Vale District turned Master of the Games, trusted advisor to the President, and one of the wealthiest men in the Crownlands. They all knew who really won.

The television flashed back to the tribute feast. Sansa was gliding across the room in Harrold Hardyng’s arms. “I suspect she is even more beautiful than her mother was at that age,” Petyr answered casually. “She was a lovely little girl from what I remember of her, but still, I had not thought it possible.”

"Yes, this one is pure Tully, isn't she? Though I swear those summer blue eyes of hers almost look like ice in a certain light.” Varys pouted his plump lips and sighed; an embellished gesture Petyr knew was only for show. “It will be heartbreaking to see her go, won’t it?”

“Heartbreaking,” Petyr agreed evenly despite the nausea he was now feeling. How could he allow this girl, his second chance and his hope to destroy the Capital and seize the power he had always hungered for, be slaughtered in the arena? No, he was the one who brought her here, and he’d be damned if he let even Varys unravel his plans.

“Though it isn’t a particularly strong year for tributes,” Varys mused. “Perhaps the Stark girl stands a chance after all? The Goodbrother twins from the Iron Islands might put up a decent fight, but, as good as they are with their axes, the Ironborn never seem to have much of a head for strategy. Except for young Mr. Greyjoy, but that was more a fluke than anything else.”

 _If you call me outsmarting you a fluke_ , Petyr thought but held his tongue.

When he offered no response, Varys continued, “The Northern and River boys have cruel eyes, and a touch of cruelty doesn’t hurt in this business. And then there’s the boy from the Vale who volunteered—”

“Hardyng is a cocksure fool,” Petyr interrupted, waving one of his long hands dismissively at Varys. “I’ll be surprised if he survives the first day. Boys like him think it’s a bloody pissing contest in there and that the ones with the biggest swords win. They don’t realize it’s all a _game_ and that the ones who know how to play survive.”

“Like you, sweet Petyr?”

He could almost hear Marya Yronwood’s gurgling scream as the dagger stuck into her neck. He could almost hear Aurane Waters calling out his victory from some unseen PA system. _Who are you telling?_ Petyr had wanted to ask him, _I’m the only one left to hear you._ “Like me,” Petyr agreed. He stood from his chair and poured himself a large glass of Arbor gold.

In truth, he thought there might be quite a bit more to Harry than all that. He was charming, athletic, and his skill with both the sword and the bow were hard to ignore. He approved of Sansa’s decision to court the Vale volunteer, even if he despised the damsel in distress act he was sure one of her idiot mentors had come up with. But he didn’t need Varys knowing that, not when they were so close to the voting.

“So who will you be placing your money on this year, my dear friend? You’ve been uncharacteristically coy.”

“I’m not quite decided yet. Any suggestions, Petyr?”

“The cripple from the Reach,” Petyr supplied with a smirk. “If you can propel that grotesque to victory, I will concede that you are the true master.”

Varys tittered and shook his head, causing the fat beneath his chin to jiggle. “Oh, Petyr, as tempting as that is, you should know I don’t play games I don’t believe I can win. No, not the Tyrell cripple… And what about you? Have you chosen yet?”

The bright smile on the eunuch’s fat face made him sick. Petyr was more than accustomed to being ridiculed, but things were different with Varys. The giggling, sycophantic eunuch was the only man in the Crownlands Petyr thought capable of taking him down someday, of disrupting all of the plans he had so carefully crafted over the years. He was the only man Petyr worried could see right through him. “Don’t dance around your point with me, Varys. You know I’ve already chosen.”

“It’s a foolish bet, Petyr,” Varys sighed, his face suddenly serious. “She’s charming and impressively stoic, I’ll grant you that, but she’s still a rather delicate creature. I remember Cat parading about her sweet daughter who adored love stories and dancing. _That_ girl won’t stand a chance in the arena. Not to mention our dear Viserys wants to see her die in a most gruesome manner. The ideas he suggested at our last meeting would have made even Bolton’s bastard shudder, I think.”

“You’re not going to talk me out of it.” He remembered putting the dagger into Sansa’s tiny hand. He also remembered the blade hitting the wall right between Aerys Targaryen’s eyes time and time again. “No, I’m putting my money on Sansa Stark. And I’m doubling last year’s wager, too.”

The eunuch’s pale eyes widened. “Have you gone mad?”

“I like risks,” Petyr said with a shrug. _And you have no idea what kind of risk I’m about to take, my friend._ “I took a risk when I volunteered myself for the Games, and it paid off. The Stark girl is a risk, and I’m willing to take it. Now hurry up and choose your tribute, so I can begin my preparations. It’s only fair.”

“I have half a mind to pick the Tyrell cripple or the weeping Westerling girl, if only to make this a fair competition,” Varys said with a quiet laugh. “But one more win for you and we’ll be even, and that simply won’t do. I have to keep you in your place, Petyr, and I fear you are holding something back from me. I’m putting my money on Catelyn Bracken of the River District.”

Petyr almost groaned out loud. It was the only name he had hoped Varys would not say. Even if the small, blonde girl looked absolutely nothing like her namesake, she still reminded him of a young Catelyn Tully, even more than Sansa Stark did. It was the way she glared at the camera, with the same fire in her eyes as the first Catelyn of the River District. It was the way her arrows never seemed to miss their targets. “Why would you choose her?” It was a stupid question that Petyr already knew the answer to. If he were not planning on using the Stark girl to incite a revolution, Bracken would have been his choice as well.

“Surely you didn’t miss the spark in her eyes? And she’s quite talented—”

“She doesn’t have an ounce of charm. That counts for something in there,” Petyr interrupted. “ _You’re_ making a fool’s bet, Varys.”

“One that seems to have you riled,” Varys observed. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see who’s really the fool.” The other Master of the Games rose from his chair and moved toward the door, but he stopped before his hand touched the knob. “Oh, and that’s such a lovely pin the Stark girl is wearing on her dress. It looks strangely familiar, doesn’t it? Do you have any idea where I might’ve seen it before?”

The wineglass broke under Petyr’s grip. Dark crimson blood mixed with the shards of glass on the ground. This wasn’t like him. No, Petyr Baelish was always the very picture of composure. But he could hear her voice again— _Petyr, you know how I care for you, but I’ve never seen you that way. You must know that. I’m a married woman._ He could see the sapphires glimmering in her hand. _They matched her eyes so perfectly. I had to search everywhere to find those stones, the ones that matched just right…_

Petyr brushed his bloody hand against his trousers and shrugged. “I have absolutely no idea. It’s a beautiful piece of work though.”

Varys nodded slowly, his eyes moving back and forth between the glass on the floor and Petyr. “Yes, indeed. I’ll see you at the meeting. Better get that hand patched up first.”

“Damn it, damn it all,” Petyr groaned the moment Varys shut the door behind him. He sat down and began to pluck the shards of glass from his palm, cursing himself for showing weakness in front of that godsforsaken eunuch.

It wasn’t until he heard a loud thud coming from the television that he looked back up. The male tribute from the Reach had somehow fallen flat on his face. Petyr almost laughed, or would have laughed, if the next thing he saw hadn’t been Sansa Stark tearing herself from Harry’s arms and asking if the boy was alright. It was only moment, truly only a moment, before she snapped out of it and turned back to Harry without another word, leaving the boy from the Sand District to help him up instead.

 _Damn it_ , he thought again. _She’s got her father’s heart._ He tore away another piece of glass. _But that can be fixed._

 

* * *

 

Sansa Stark was nervous for her interview. This was her last chance to make the right impression on the Crownlanders before the voting commenced. But Sansa had always been good at talking prettily, and even Benjen said the Jonquil dress Olenna crafted for her was stunning. She was thankful she didn’t have to walk on stage in front of all those people in some of the horrid costumes the other stylists had put their tributes in.

The talk with Harrold Hardyng also could not have gone more perfectly. _We can do this together, Sansa_ , he had whispered in her ear, and for the first time since Falyse Stokeworth called out her name, she thought that, _yes, maybe I can actually do this._ She felt energized, she felt hungry… She wanted to feel the cool metal of a dagger in her hand, wanted to fight to see her family again and to show President Targaryen that the Starks will not fall, and she wanted to do it all with Harry by her side.

“Harrold believed me, about my skill with the daggers,” Sansa whispered to her mentors, a proud grin on her face. “He said he was hoping to be my partner as well and that he’ll say so during his interview.” Sansa was certain Maege and Benjen would be relieved by her news, but she could tell something had shaken them up when they only nodded and half-smiled in response. “What is that you aren’t you telling me? Is it bad?”

“It’s nothing to worry about, love,” Benjen said, as he fixed one of the flowers in her hair. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Benjen opened his mouth to answer but then paused. His eyes widened slightly, and she followed his gaze to Jeyne’s mockingbird pin fastened securely on her dress just above her left breast. “Where—where did you get _that_?"

“My pin?” Sansa asked. “From Jeyne. She wanted me to wear it as my favor in the arena. Why? Don’t you like it? What’s wrong?”

“I— _uh_ , nothing is wrong. It just reminded me of something, is all. Like I said, everything is going to be fine.”

The answer did little to comfort her, but before she could press him for more information the men in the black shirts were pulling her toward the stage. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed one of them whispering something to Harry but didn’t have time to consider what it might mean, not when she was suddenly under a glaring spotlight and could barely hear over the roar of the crowd.

They seated her between Harry and Ramsay Bolton. Harry was fidgeting and kept glancing sideways at her. And, from the end of the row, she could practically _feel_ the male Reach tribute’s eyes locked on her. She wondered if something had gone wrong with her hair or if her dress had ripped in the back, but the Host of the Games Aurane Waters was speaking before she could agonize too much over it.

“Welcome Crownlanders! It is time for one of the most exciting parts of the Hunger Games ceremonies, the tribute interviews!” The crowd answered with another deafening round of applause. Some were calling out the names of the specific tributes they were rooting for. Sansa found herself smiling just a little when she heard a young girl in the front row call out _her_ name. “We have some fantastic questions prepared for this year’s tributes. Make sure you pay close attention to their answers because immediately after the interviews, you, my fellow Crownlanders, both here and at home, will be voting for and deciding the pairs once and for all on live television!”

 _We’ll know our partners tonight?_ She had been sure they would put off the voting until the tribute scores were released the following day. _Well, I guess tonight I’ll know if I stand a chance...  
_

“Now, let’s start off the night with Devan Seaworth of the Storm District!”

The Storm tributes were pleasant enough but rather dull, and the girl couldn’t seem to get through a sentence without blushing and stumbling over her words. The Sand tributes were each just as intimidating and beautiful as the other, and she started to doubt her choice to pursue Harry instead of Edric Dayne. The Ice District, the last district between her and Aurane Waters, hadn’t put forward a victorious tribute since the plague over thirty years ago, so she found herself running through her practiced answers instead of paying much attention its tributes.

After a series of grunts and not-so-subtle threats directed toward the other tributes from Ramsay Bolton, Sansa’s name was finally called. Her heart was beating wildly, as she walked toward the chair opposite of Aurane, but she did her best to keep her face serene.

“Sansa Stark!” Aurane exclaimed, leaning forward to pat her knee. “You have proved quite a favorite so far in these Games. Many have compared you to Cersei Lannister of the Western District; what do you think of that, Miss Stark?”

 _I think it’s stupid._ “Well, I’m flattered, of course,” she said, directing her answer to the audience just as Benjen instructed. “She was a very strong competitor, but I’d like to think I’m more like my mother, Aurane.”

“Oh yes, of course, your dear mother,” Aurane said, sticking out his bottom lip and furrowing his eyebrows in a gross caricature of a frown. “She would be so proud to see you here now; don’t you think?”

 _I think she’d want to kill you all for putting me through this._ “I hope she would be, Aurane. I want nothing more than to continue her legacy and make both the Northern and River Districts proud.” As soon as the response left her mouth, she wished she could have pulled it back. Even a hint of inter-district unity was enough to get one killed after the Rebellion. _Fantastic, as if there wasn’t a big enough target on my back already._

The smile on Aurane’s faltered for only a moment. “Yes, yes, very good… So, Sansa, please tell me about this incredible dress you are wearing!”

She was grateful for the change of subject and silently prayed President Targaryen and the gamemakers would not dwell too much on her slipup. “Oh, isn’t it absolutely lovely? It’s inspired by the story of fair Jonquil and her Florian. Love stories have always been my absolute favorite, and my stylist Olenna was so kind to indulge me.”

“Well, it suits you, my dear,” he said, touching her knee again. “Speaking of love stories, any male tributes you have your eyes on for a partner?”

She smiled and ducked her head, as if embarrassed by the inquiry. “Well, yes, Aurane, I—I think there might be…”

“ _Ooh_ , do tell us who it is! Wouldn’t you all love to know?” he called out. The audience answered with a series loud whistles and cheers.

“Well, I—I was hoping very much to be paired with Harrold Hard—” She couldn’t even finish his name over the sound of the crowd. Their enthusiastic applause made her feel just a little lighter. With Harry she stood a chance, and the crowd seemed to believe the same.

When the clapping and catcalls finally died down again, Aurane called her lovely a couple more times, thanked her, and sent her back to seat. When she sat down, she flashed Harry a small smile right as his own name was called. To her surprise, he only frowned back and quickly averted his eyes from hers. _Oh no, what happened?_

Aurane didn’t waste his time on any pointless preamble with Harry, not after Sansa’s bold declaration. “So, Harrold, what do you think about what Miss Stark had to say? Are you hoping to be competing with her in the arena as well?”

“I think Sansa Stark is a lovely girl, impossibly sweet and just as beautiful—” She could feel the _but_ , see the _but_ on his lips before the word actually left his mouth. _I’ve made a mistake. Oh, gods, what did I do?_ “—but I’m afraid my heart belongs with another. There is just something about Catelyn Bracken—”

After that, Harry could have broken out into song or some alien language for all Sansa knew because she couldn’t hear a word he said over the buzzing in her ears. All she wanted to do was run from the stage and hide in Benjen’s arms. She should have known better than to trust in the blue-eyed boy’s promises; hadn’t Petyr taught her better than that all those years ago? _Trust no one but yourself, sweetling. Trusting the wrong person will be your downfall._

She could hear Myranda Royce’s name being called and knew Harry was on his way back to the seat next to hers. She stared fixedly ahead, trying to avoid his eyes and the pity-filled stares of the Crownlanders at the same time. She forced herself not to see any of it, forced herself to go blank so the dread and grief now filling her up wouldn’t show on her face. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of her name again that she finally tuned back in to her surroundings.

“—the North’s Sansa Stark. Was it about her that keeps drawing your eyes?”

She turned her head just enough to see that Willas Tyrell from the Reach District was now sitting across from Aurane. There was a violent blush burning in his cheeks. _Oh, seven hells, please don’t tell me…_

“Was it really that obvious?” Willas asked, with a nervous chuckle. “To be honest, Aurane, I think she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Though I’m fairly certain she doesn’t even know I exist.”

The crowd responded with a chorus of soft _aww_ s. Sansa wanted to vomit. _What the hell is he doing? What does he want with me?_

“Oh, now I’m sure that’s not true!” Aurane argued, gripping Willas’ shoulder. “How could she not notice a handsome young man like you? Why, I am sure you had plenty of girlfriends back home.”

“Oh no, none at all, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “I’ve always been shy—”

“Shy!” Aurane gasped. “But you seem like such a charmer.”

Willas Tyrell _was_ charming and handsome and unexpectedly endearing with a blush in his dimpled cheeks. While dancing with Harry during the feast, she had caught more than one of the stories he told the other tributes and had almost wanted to congratulate him for making such an admirable effort to get noticed for something other than his disability, even after that dreadful fall. But she had never imagined that he would use his charm to get _her_ as a partner.

Part of her wanted to interrupt the interview and beg the audience not to attach her to him. _He can’t run_ , she wanted to scream, _He can hardly even walk! He won’t survive the first day!_ She felt tremendously guilty for thinking such a thing. She wanted to see him for more than just his leg, wanted to see the sweet boy Olenna had described to her. In another life, she might have even fancied Willas Tyrell with his bashful smiles and dark curls. They would have made a lovely pair, tall and soft-spoken and elegant. But, in this life, every kind word about her out of his mouth only made her hate him just a little bit more.

As he limped back to his seat, cane in hand, tears began to push against the backs of Sansa’s eyes. _I’m doomed. I’ll never make it back to Robb and Bran and Rickon. I’ll never see Arya and Jon again._

Three interviews later, Aurane Waters stood and thanked all of the tributes for their words. “And now it’s time for what you have all been waiting for! Make sure to get your final votes in now, everyone! Audience, you will find tablets under your seat to enter your votes, and everyone at home, just call the number at the bottom of your screen and let the operator know exactly who you would like to see together in the arena!”

The fifteen minutes that followed were the longest of Sansa’s life, but it didn’t surprise her even a little when Aurane finally announced, “And it looks like our first and most popular pair will be Sansa Stark of the Northern District and Willas Tyrell of the Reach District! May the odds be ever in your favor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter was tough to write, hope it doesn't show too much.
> 
> The next chapter will finally see Sansa/Willas and Petyr/Sansa interaction, and the chapter after that the games begin! Thanks for reading.


	5. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’m a traitor’s daughter. I’ve tried not to think about it too much, but I can’t pretend my name wasn’t picked because President Targaryen isn’t quite through teaching my family a lesson. The President wants me to die in there, probably in a spectacular fashion. Having me as your partner certainly won’t tip the odds in your favor.”
> 
> Willas rolled his eyes and grabbed at his bad knee. “Look at me, Sansa; the odds were never in my favor.”

_Just take a deep breath. Deep breaths. Don’t yell. Do not yell at him. Ask him politely why he did what he just did, but don’t yell. Maybe he has a good reason? Maybe he really does like you? Can you be mad at someone for liking you? Just don’t yell. Definitely don’t yell, especially not with all these people—_

“Why did you have to ruin everything?!” _Well, so much for that._ The question came out far louder and far more accusatory than Sansa Stark intended. She had shouted it so stridently that the other tributes and their mentors had all stopped in their tracks and turned to stare openly at her. This wasn’t like her, to be yelling in public. It really wasn’t like her to be yelling at all. Yelling wasn’t polite.

It took nearly a minute for Willas Tyrell to realize the question had been directed at him. “Wha—what?” he stammered out.

“Why would you do that?” She tried to control the volume of her voice, she really did, but the question still left her lips as a shout. “What could you possibly want with me?” She moved closer to him, standing on her tiptoes so he had to look straight into her eyes. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! I wasn’t supposed to end up with _you_ as a partner!”

The Reach tribute’s mouth fell open a little, and his eyes, his damned beautiful, bright hazel eyes looked so hurt Sansa suddenly wished she could take it back. He glanced over her head at the crowd gathered around them before focusing back on her. “Shouldn’t we have this conversation somewhere more private?”

She responded to the question by pushing closer and closer to him until she had successfully backed him against the far wall. “Private enough?” she asked, poking a finger into his chest. “What were you thinking?”

“Sansa, I, look, you have to understand, I—I didn’t say what I said to hurt you or to make myself look better or anything like that,” he said quietly, so only she could hear him. “After what Hardyng did, I just thought—I thought you’d be grateful if—”

“Grateful?” she hissed. “ _Grateful_?”

“Yes, bloody grateful,” he spat back, with a new determined set to his jaw. He leaned over her so their faces were only inches apart. It was only then she realized how tall he was and how close their bodies were and just how little clothing he was wearing. She could feel his breath against her lips, and, for one brief moment, she actually thought he intended to kiss her. “He abandoned you on television without warning, in front of the entire Crownlands, and I felt bad for you. I wasn’t expecting Aurane to ask me about you at all, okay? But when he did, I thought I could help you. I thought together—”

“You thought together we could what? Die faster?” She backed away from him and tried to ignore that her heart was now racing, that her cheeks felt hot. One of the daisies in her hair fell loose and drooped across her forehead. She tugged it violently away and smashed it under her foot. “They might have still put me with Harry, you know. They might of if you hadn’t lied and falsely declared your love for me!”

Willas frowned and narrowed his eyes. She noticed his grip on his cane tighten. “Why would you want to be partnered with him after what he did?” he shouted back, his frustration now matching her own. “He betrayed you in front of everyone! He humiliated you! For you to blatantly ask for him like that, he must have made you a promise, yes? A promise that he broke. And you’re still telling me you’d rather have your life in his hands than mine.”

“Well, at least _he_ can walk!”

The words hung heavy in the air between them. There were a couple of gasps somewhere behind her but other than that the room had fallen silent. Sansa was vaguely aware that everyone in the room, including her, seemed to be holding their breaths, waiting to see how Willas would react. As she stood there and finally allowed herself a couple of deep breaths, she felt her ire over the partnership begin to fade, and shame was quickly taking its place. _Why would you say that? His leg isn’t his fault. He was only trying to help you._

“Willas—”

“You’re right,” he sighed, interrupting her thought. The resignation in his voice caught her off guard. Only moments ago, he had been fighting back, meeting her shouts with his own. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. When we get into the arena, I wouldn’t blame you if you just left me behind.”

_Gods, what do I even say?_ His eyes were glassy, and his chin was starting to tremble. She turned away from him, not sure she could handle the guilt she’d undoubtedly feel if he began to cry. Had she ever made someone cry before? This wasn’t her. Sansa had learned to be pragmatic over the years, but she never imagined she had also learned to be cruel. “I shouldn’t have—that wasn’t kind of me to say,” was all she could manage. He murmured something in response, but Sansa didn’t catch it. The next sound she heard was the _click-click_ of his cane against the stone floor, and when she finally turned back around he was gone.

With his exit, the crowd also began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves. Sansa tried to ignore the way they were all looking at her and their whispers, and stared at the door Willas had just walked through instead. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but two strong hands eventually grasped her shoulders. “It’s perfectly understandable that you’re upset, Sansa,” she heard Benjen say. Tears began to stream down her cheeks. “The boy will understand, too.”

“He can barely walk without the cane, Benjen,” she whispered. “He’ll be dead the first day. I feel awful saying it, I really do. He seems—he seems like such a nice boy. But he’s not going to make it past the Cornucopia, is he?”

Benjen took a deep breath and tightened his grip on her shoulders. “I think you need to be prepared to do this on your own, Sansa.”

She knew he was right, but the answer still broke something inside her. The idea of having someone by her side, someone to fight _with_ her rather than against her had been comforting. The odds were stacked so high against her from the start, but she had managed to convince herself that with Harrold Hardyng on her side she stood a chance, that she could put up a fight that would at least make her family proud of her. Now, she was back to where she started. Now, she was as good as alone again.

“Cheer up, love.” The male mentor from the Iron District, Theon Greyjoy, grinned and pushed up her chin with two of his long fingers. The mere proximity of him made her breath catch in her throat. Jeyne and the other girls at school had been so in love with the dark, handsome tribute from Iron District when he competed two years ago. Up close, it wasn’t hard to see why. There was something seductive about his eyes, even without him trying. “It’s not over yet, so put on a smile; you’re prettier when you smile.”  Words completely escaped her. She ought to have said thank you or something, anything, but she simply gaped at him until he winked at her and walked away.

_It’s not over yet._ Though it felt like her world had collapsed around her for the second time in less than a week, she still desperately wanted to believe that. _We love you, and we need you. Come home to us. Please_ , she could hear Robb pleading with her again. _I’m trying, Robb,_ she wanted to tell him. _I’m trying so hard, but it’s not working._

Benjen tugged gently at her shoulders, and the two of them made the walk back to their rooms in silence. They should have been strategizing. They should have been working out ways to make the best of her being paired with Willas Tyrell. But it seemed neither of them had the energy for it, not just yet.

“We’ll have time to talk about this tomorrow before your final evaluation with the gamemakers,” Benjen said, when they stopped outside her room. He sounded so tired, almost as tired as she felt. “Maybe—maybe tomorrow it all won’t seem so bad.”

“Maybe,” she agreed halfheartedly. “Goodnight, Uncle Benjen.”

When the door clicked shut behind her, she collapsed against the wall and sank to her knees. She could feel the tears coming up again but tried to force them back. She had neither the time nor the energy to cry anymore. The best thing she could do was to push her fears aside and try to get some sleep, so she didn’t completely fall apart in front of the gamemakers the next morning. _It’s not over yet._ With Theon’s words playing through her mind, she forced herself to stand and felt the wall for the light switch.

“That was quite the show.” The voice was terrifyingly foreign and familiar at the same time. She made to scream, but a hand clapped almost gently over her mouth before she could utter anything more than a squeak. “Now, now, none of that. We wouldn’t want anyone finding me here, would we? Don’t you remember me, Sansa?”

The hand moved away from her lips but still hovered cautiously by her chin. She did remember him. She’d recognize his voice anywhere. “Petyr?”

“Very good, sweetling.” The lights flickered on, and he stepped in front of her. A smile spread out across his lips. “It’s been so long, my dear Sansa. You’ve grown. You might be even more beautiful than your mother was at your age.”

Petyr Baelish looked almost exactly how she remembered him. There had always been a smile on his lips when they were together. His gray-green eyes were bright and lively and constantly moving. His clothes were pressed and elegant and fit his lithe body flawlessly. It seemed the only things that had changed were the small streaks of gray that now ran through his dark hair and that she had matched his height. “What—what are you doing here? Isn’t this—? This _must_ be against the rules.”

“Oh, I can’t even count the number of rules I’ve broken to be here, standing across from you, love,” he laughed. “I’ve never let the so-called rules stop me from getting what I want though, and neither will you. But first things first, where did you get that magnificent pin?”

Her fingertips skimmed lightly over the cool silver of the broach on her chest. _Why does everyone care so much about my pin?_ “It was a gift from my friend Jeyne Poole. She wanted me to wear it in the arena. Why?”

The smile on Petyr’s face wavered for a moment. “From your friend Jeyne, you say? It’s lovely. I’ve always been fond of mockingbirds myself. They don’t have many songs of their own, mockingbirds. They repeat back the songs of others, but still, such lovely music they make. Don’t you think?”

“I—I’m not sure I’ve heard one.”

“No, I suppose there aren’t many up in the cold, barren North.” There was a new edge to his voice that made her worry she had said something to upset him. _Tread carefully, Sansa. He’s not your babysitter anymore._ “Maybe someday I’ll be able to show you the Vale. A dreary place in many ways but not without its charms… and a plentitude of mockingbirds.”

_How in the seven hells would I ever be able to see the Vale? Has he forgotten I’m about to be thrown into the arena with a boy who can’t run?_ “I—I would like that,” she said, annoyed by how small her voice sounded. She was a woman grown now, not the bashful little girl he had known, and she should’ve sounded like it. But there was something about Petyr that made her feel like she was 9-years-old all over again.

“I was very close to your mother, Sansa. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

She nodded. “She said you were like a brother to her.”

His lips pursed, and she knew she had said the wrong thing again. “Yes, I’m sure that she did. I loved Catelyn Tully, and I would very much like to help her daughter. What do you think of that, Sansa?”

“But—but you’re one of the Masters of the Games.”

“Yes, I am, which makes me the perfect person to help you, doesn’t it?” With one long stride forward, he positioned himself in front of her so that their bodies were nearly pressed together. The room was cold, but she could feel the heat radiating from him. A careful finger traced slowly over her cheekbone before he captured a handful of her flower-strewn hair in his fist. His eyes locked on hers, and just like with Willas earlier, she fleetingly thought he meant to kiss her. “This Game isn’t going to be anything like the others. There’s going to be a twist of sorts, and I will do everything in my power to make sure you live to see it.”

“H—how?”

“Well, first we’ll fix the cripple those bastards saddled you with.” The easy smile she remembered came back to his face, and he backed away from her a little. “Tomorrow night, be ready, because we’re going to break some more rules.”

_He’s messing with me. This is some sort of cruel jape or a test of my loyalty to the Targaryens._ “My—my father was a traitor. My loyalty is with President Targaryen. I only wish to serve the President.” The words tumbled effortlessly from her lips just like they had after her father’s rebellion was smashed by the Capital.

Petyr laughed so loudly at that she gasped and felt compelled to take a few steps away from him. “Oh, my dear Sansa, I did teach you to lie well, didn’t I? For a second, I confess, I almost believed they had succeeded in brainwashing you.” He pressed his palm against her cheek. “You need not fear me, child. I was tribute just like you not too many years ago, and I loved your mother dearly. Do you really think my loyalty is with the Targaryens after what they did to me, after what they did to _her_?”

“You—you really mean to help me then?” A spark of hope kindled inside of her. “You can help Willas? How?”

“Let me worry about the boy,” he said, waving the question off. “I only need you to worry about acting like _this_ never happened. When you see me at the evaluation tomorrow, a little recognition will be expected, but I’d flavor it with a touch of betrayal or purposeful indifference. I can’t have my partner catching on to this.”

“I can do that,” she promised. She was a master at the controlling her face when she needed to be. “But—”

“We’ll deal with the boy’s leg tomorrow night. Don’t fret over it.” He ran his fingers through her hair again. The dim light of the room caught in her copper tresses as he did, highlighting one of the lighter streaks that ran throughout them. “You were absolutely perfect when they called your name,” he whispered, eyes still focused on her hair. “Perfect.” She felt like she ought to say something, but no words came to mind. “I threw myself into the dragon's mouth for your mother once, and it seems now I’ll do the same for you.”

Before she could even begin to consider what that might mean, Petyr released her hair and asked, “So who thought up the damsel-in-distress act?”

“My—my mentors. They thought it might inspire the Crownlanders to vote me with a strong partner, a knight in shining armor type.”

Petyr snorted. “Well, that backfired, didn’t it? They gave you Florian the Fool instead. Your uncle has always been a bit dense. Now it’s time for us to erase the damage he’s done. It’s time for you to make your move and show everyone just how strong you are. I trust you kept up your practice with the daggers since our last meeting.”

Sansa nodded quickly. “Yes, every day, like you said.” She found herself hoping that would make him proud of her. “I’m—I’m even better than I was back then.”

“I look forward to seeing you perform tomorrow,” he said, beaming at her. “You’re going to blow them all away. And as Master of the Games, I can assure you that there will be a set of pretty silver daggers waiting for you in the Cornucopia.”

_I just have to stay alive long enough to get my hands on them._ “Thank you, Petyr—or should I call you Master Baelish?”

“No, no, I always liked that you called me Petyr. Though it is best not to refer to me as anything at all in public.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t.”

“Yes, you’re smarter than that.” His eyes scanned over her face again, as he if was committing every inch of it to his memory. She shivered under the intensity of that stare. “You are going to be so much more than just a tribute, Sansa. So much more.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you trust me, Sansa?” The question suddenly prompted her to remember the look on her mother’s face when a young Sansa had asked if she would ever see Petyr Baelish and the Capital again. _No, Sansa, and you’re not to speak that name in this house again._ The expression on her mother’s face had made it clear it was an order rather than a request, and she never did say Petyr’s name out loud again.

_No_ , she thought, _I don’t trust you_. But that was definitely not what he wanted to hear. “Of course, Petyr,” she said instead. “I trust you.”

“You’re going to be magnificent.” With that, he leaned forward, pressed a dry kiss to the apple of her cheek, and swept past her toward the bedroom door. He inched it open and peeked his head through the crack. “Until tomorrow.” He nodded to her, slipped into the hallway, and shut the door behind him without another word.

 

* * *

 

The lone sound in the room was the incessant ticking of a nearby clock. Only she and Willas and Harry and Catelyn had yet to perform for the gamemakers. She noticed Harry glimpse over at her a couple of times during the wait but had no interest in meeting his eyes or hearing anything he might have had to say to her.

Willas, on the other hand, had spent the last hour staring intently at his shoelaces, never once glancing her direction. He looked nothing like the boy Aurane Waters had interviewed yesterday. That boy was charismatic and lively and impossible to ignore; the one sitting next to her looked deflated, defeated, miserable… He looked like he had already given up.

When Harry and Catelyn were called in, she took a deep breath and turned to Willas. _You need to fix this._ “I—I didn’t mean what I said yesterday.”

“Sure you did,” he said to his shoes. “I told you I don’t blame you for it. I’m not delusional. I know what my leg means for me in the arena. I don’t know what got into me yesterday. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“None of this is fair to any of us, is it?” That got him to finally look up. “Acting like I acted yesterday certainly wasn’t fair to you. Your grandmother was my stylist, you know. She told—she told me enough about you that I know you didn’t deserve that, especially not in front of everyone. I don’t know what got into me. I’m not usually so rude. In fact, I make it a point to never be rude. I’m sorry.”

To her surprise, he smiled at her. It was a small, sad sort of smile. “Really? I’m surprised my grandmother had anything positive to say about me at all. I think she’s referred to me as fool more than Willas in my life. She always thought I was too much of a romantic, never missed an opportunity to try to knock my head out of the clouds.”

“I can relate to that,” she chuckled. “I wasn’t lying when I told Aurane that I loved love stories. Florian and Jonquil was always my favorite. And now I’ve been cast as Jonquil reborn and you my Florian. It almost feels like the universe is mocking me.”

Willas snorted and said, “I was thinking the same thing.” He looked back down at his shoelaces, and she seized the opportunity to sneak a better look at this face. When her eyes landed on his curls, she was struck by the desire to reach out and touch them, to see if they were as soft as they looked. There was a light blush in his cheeks again, and she found wanted to touch those too. _Oh gods, just because they cast him as your Florian doesn’t mean you have to regard him that way._

She looked away from him and down at her hands instead. “I’m not as weak as I appear, you know. The damsel in distress business was mostly an act. I mean, I’m no warrior woman or anything remotely like that, but I’m decently fast, and I’ve been throwing daggers since I was a child.” He said nothing. “I just thought you should know before we went in there.”

“I figured,” he said. “I knew you must have said something to Harry.”

Her jaw clenched. “I told him the same thing. I thought he believed me, but I guess he didn’t. I don’t blame him. Catelyn Bracken was a better bet.”

“The Crownlanders like you better.”

“Maybe, but that won’t matter once we’re in the arena, will it?” Sansa sighed. “They can’t shield me from her arrows, can they? Even if they had the mind to, the President certainly wouldn’t let them. You made a mistake saying you wanted to be my partner. I’m a traitor’s daughter. I’ve tried not to think about it too much, but I can’t pretend my name wasn’t picked because President Targaryen isn’t quite through teaching my family a lesson. The President wants me to die in there, probably in a spectacular fashion. Having me as your partner certainly won’t tip the odds in your favor.”

Willas rolled his eyes and grabbed at his bad knee. “Look at me, Sansa; the odds were never in my favor.”

_Well, first we’ll fix the cripple._ She wondered exactly what Petyr had meant by that. _Can he make it so Willas can walk without the cane? Maybe even run?_ “We’ll just have to fight that much harder then, won’t we?”

He smiled at her again, and she felt her heart skip.

A young woman called them inside shortly after that. Sansa slowed her gait to match Willas’ as they walked in front of the panel of gamemakers. Most of them barely seemed to register their arrival and kept right on talking with each other or eating. She glanced at Willas and then cautiously moved toward a set of daggers on the floor, hoping a dagger in the training dummy’s throat would get their attention.

She balanced the blade carefully in her fingers, as she eyed the dummy across the room. She could feel a pair of eyes on her and looked up to see it was Petyr. “Ah, look! It’s Catelyn Tully’s daughter.” A number of the gamemakers abruptly stopped chatting and looked down at her. “And she throws daggers, apparently.”

“Daggers?” a high-pitched voice interjected. “You used the same weapon in the arena, didn’t you, Petyr?”

“Yes, Varys, what an impressive memory you have.”

_Thank you, Petyr_ , she thought, knowing their eyes were now all focused on her because of him. With one last, deep breath, she thrust out her arm and sent the dagger flying through the air. She couldn’t suppress a smile when it landed squarely between the dummy’s eyes. _Just like you taught me…_

There were a few murmurs, and one of them even clapped his hands together. Sansa threw three more daggers, the first two landing in the dummy’s neck and the last in the heart. “Fascinating. I’d say she’s almost as good as you were, Petyr,” Varys spoke again.

“Really, my friend? I’d say she’s even better,” she heard Petyr laugh in response, but she didn’t look back at him, remembering what he had said about not appearing too familiar. Instead she focused all of her attention on Willas, who was now moving toward the weapons rack.

She was glad she was facing away from the gamemakers when Willas dropped his cane and reached out to pick up a sword, because her jaw fell open. She thought perhaps he had some experience with the bow and arrow or another weapon that did not require so much movement, so much grace. _What are you doing?_

Willas gripped the pommel of the sword and used it as his support until he was standing a few feet in front of the same dummy Sansa had just littered with daggers. With a low grunt, he swung the sword just as she had seen Robb and Jon and Arya do so many times. The blade landed in the dummy’s neck, and she gasped when the head rolled off and fell to the floor at his feet. He dropped the sword and bowed his head to the gamemakers, “Thank you for your time.”

Sansa forced herself to stop gawking at him and dashed over to retrieve his cane. “Thank you for your time,” she echoed. With those parting words, she and Willas left the room with their heads held just a little bit higher than when they walked in.

“I’m not as weak as I appear either, Sansa.”  
  
 _No, perhaps you're not.  
_

 

* * *

 

Varys knew President Viserys Targaryen was angry before he even stepped through the door. He was pacing, and the boy always liked to pace in front of his oversized fireplace whenever he planned on punishing someone for his or her disobedience, real or imagined. _You’ve woken the dragon_ , he was so fond of saying. Maybe he even fancied himself a dragon when he stood in front of those flames. But Varys knew Viserys was only an ill-tempered child playing at being a dragon. It wouldn’t be long until he went just as mad as his father.

“Varys, it’s about time you got here!” the President exclaimed. _Master Varys_ , he wanted to correct, _that’s the title your father gave me, boy._ “How could you let this stupidity go through? The traitor bitch and the cripple given a score of _nine_? One half of that pair can’t even walk, and they’re the third highest scoring partnership?”

“Mr. President, Harrold Hardyng and Catelyn Bracken were given an eleven, and Valena Toland and Walder Frey received a ten. Edric Dayne and Brienne Tarth were also given a nine, so I’m sure the focus isn’t—”

“Isn’t what? Isn’t on the Stark brat? Have you turned on a television in the last hour? Those two are all these idiots can talk about!” he shouted back. “Don’t I own the media? Can’t I just tell them to shut up?”

“They’re giving the public what they want, Mr. President,” Petyr sighed from the other corner of the room. Varys could tell his partner was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “They’re the underdogs. It will all make for a nice little love story. Trust me; let the media run with it for now. It will only make it all the more tragic when they die in the arena. Isn’t that what you wanted? If you kill an inconsequential Northern girl that no one even noticed, you’re hardly making your point.”

Viserys’ eyes narrowed at that. _You’re pushing him too hard, Petyr. Love really does make people idiots._ He almost felt bad for his partner. He was predictably infatuated with the Stark girl, but there was no way the President would abide the rebel’s daughter leaving the arena still breathing, and even if they both resented the boy’s power over them, neither of them were in any place to openly defy it… yet.

“Yes, we exaggerated their score for that very reason, Mr. President,” Varys said, relishing the brief glimmer of surprise on Petyr’s face. “It will make one of the gruesome deaths you’ve suggested for her that much more impressive, don’t you think? If you want to destroy someone’s spirit, first you have to give them hope.”

That made Viserys smile just as Varys expected it would. There were few things the President liked more than crushing the spirits of his people. “Well, you still should have run that plan by me first,” he said. “You might be the Masters of the Games, but I’m the one who has the final say.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Petyr said. “Neither of us would ever question your authority. We only sought to give you what you wanted.”

“If the Stark girl wins this thing, I hope you know I’ll kill you both. No, no, I wouldn’t just kill you. That would be far too kind. I’d give you to my dragon and see what he thinks is best. How does that sound?”

_Who made the fool’s bet, Petyr?_ He was tempted to laugh. A kinder man would have offered Petyr the chance to switch his choice. Luckily, Varys was no longer a kind man. _Catelyn Bracken will destroy them all, and he knows it. The poor bastard is just too blinded by Catelyn’s pretty ghost to accept it._ “That goes without saying. Mr. President.”

“Indeed,” Petyr agreed.

The boy’s shoulders finally relaxed, and he stepped away from the fire. “Daenerys thinks it’s all very _romantic_ ,” he sneered. “I wanted to slap some sense into the stupid girl, but Hayford said that would be very _unkingly_ of me, whatever the hell that means. Can one of you find someone to do it for me?”

Varys felt his stomach clench. Few acts of cruelty stirred a reaction in him anymore, but the thought of someone striking Daenerys Targaryen didn’t sit well with him. She was a small, gentle girl who Varys had accidentally developed something of a fondness for. He would have come to view her for what she really was in time though, just another means to an end. When he was first named Master of the Games, engineering the deaths of young children had also made him sick. Their faces haunted him for a while, stared at him from the dark corners of the Red Keep and screamed to him for help from the flames in the President’s fireplace. Now that former guilt had all but vanished. This game he played every year was only a small part of a much bigger picture, a price that had to be paid to someday secure a new ruler, a ruler worthy of being called a dragon. It was all for the good of the realm.

“Of course, Mr. President,” Petyr answered. “We’ll make certain someone looks into that for you. Is there anything else you would like us to do?”

Sometimes he wondered if his partner Petyr Baelish was also playing a longer game. It was no small accomplishment for an orphan boy from the Vale to rise up so high in the President’s Administration. Petyr liked money and fineries and women who looked like Catelyn Tully, but when it came down to it, Varys had no idea what the man _really_ desired. That scared him more than he cared to admit.

“Always a pleasure, huh?” Petyr mumbled, as the pair of them exited the President’s apartments. “Though I have to say, he took that better than I expected.”

“ _Mm_ ,” Varys agreed. “He only threatened to feed us to the dragon once. If I didn’t know better, I would say he’s even starting to respect us.”

Petyr smirked and turned away. He took only two or three steps before he stopped and looked back at Varys. “Ah, I almost forgot. Let the games begin, my friend.”

Varys searched Petyr’s face for any hint of panic or regret over his choice in tribute, but there was nothing to be found aside from the usual insufferable smirk he always wore. _Let him look smug. It’s when you become emotionally invested in your pieces that you lose the game. He’ll just have to learn that the hard way._  He nodded and answered with a smirk of his own. “Yes, let the games begin.”

 

* * *

 

Willas Tyrell shifted in his bed. He had been sleeping soundly, dreaming of the rose gardens back home, when he was suddenly overcome by the feeling he was no longer alone. There was a weight pushing down his mattress from the edge of the bed, a weight that certainly had not been there when he laid down that evening.

He slowly blinked his eyes open and felt around him but could see nothing through the darkness. He paused and strained his ears, but the room was completely silent. _Great, now I’m imagining things._

“I really, really don’t think I should be doing this.” That wasn’t his voice. That wasn’t any voice he had ever heard before.

Willas gasped and immediately shot up from the bed. Before he could run or scream or try to fight off whoever had broken into his room, two strong arms threw him back down on to the bed, smacking his head against the bedpost in the process, while someone else shoved a cloth gag into his mouth. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk yet? You’ve spooked the boy.” _That_ voice he recognized. _That_ voice he had been hearing on television for the last five years.

“Can we turn the lights on?” And _that_ voice belonged to Sansa Stark. “You’re probably scaring him.” A gentle hand landed on his chest and felt its way up to his face. “It’s okay, Willas. We’re only here to help you. Don’t fight.”

The gag and the mysterious arms still holding him down were making that difficult to believe, and the light finally being turned on certainly didn’t help matters. Around his bed stood Petyr Baelish, the Master of the Games, Sansa Stark with her hand still on his cheek, a strange woman with dark purple skin in a lab coat, and Theon Greyjoy of the Iron District. _What the hell is going on_? That’s what he wanted to ask, but the question came out as garbled nonsense through the gag.

“I really shouldn’t be doing this,” the strange woman said again. She was fidgeting with her hair and kept glancing at Greyjoy.

“Don’t you dare move,” Theon hissed at Willas before releasing his shoulders and walking toward the doctor. “Come on, baby,” he said smoothly, running his fingers through her bright gold hair. “Don’t you love me? I promised no one but us ever has to know about this. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

The woman visibly relaxed under Theon’s hands, and she nodded. “Oh, well, okay,” she sighed before pressing a lingering kiss to Theon’s lips. “But someone needs to hold him down. This is going to hurt.”

Willas made to lunge away again, but the Master of the Games smacked him hard across the face and Greyjoy slammed him back down before he got very far. “ _Petyr_ ,” Sansa snapped, “There’s no need for that.”

_She’s on a first name basis with the fucking Master of the Games? What in the gods’ names is going on?_ Petyr Baelish smirked at Sansa almost fondly before turning his attention to the doctor. “We need to do this fast. Do we sedate him?”

“Oh no,” the woman said, as she fumbled through a metallic case sitting at the end of his bed. “I’ll give him a painkiller afterwards. No need to waste any more than necessary on a kid from the _districts_. Just hold him down; I don’t want him trying to kick me.”

Greyjoy rolled his eyes and then climbed on to the bed. He pressed his knees down Willas shoulders, so he was effectively trapped. While it occurred to him that having Theon Greyjoy’s crotch in his face was the least of his worries at the moment, he still wasn’t particularly comfortable with the new positioning. “You two hold down his legs, and let’s get this madness over with before the President roasts us for dinner.”

He couldn’t see past Theon’s body, but he soon felt someone tugging off his trousers. _Oh gods, I’m wearing the underwear with my name embroidered on them._ The idea of Sansa Stark seeing him without his trousers was enough to make him blush and feel sick with embarrassment. _Priorities, Tyrell, you ought to be more focused on the other woman, the one who’s apparently about to dissect your leg._

Shortly after being divested of his bottoms, he felt someone sit down on his good leg. “Try not to kick, Willas,” he heard Sansa’s soft voice again. There was an almost musical quality to it, and he found himself wondering if she could sing. “We’re only trying to help you, so please try to relax a bit.”

_Easier said than done,_ he thought, as a pair of cold hands began to grope at his crippled leg. “Ah, just as I suspected, a broken bone that no one ever bothered to set properly. What is wrong with people in the districts? They’re as foolish as the President says they are.”

“It’s not their fault they don’t have hospitals or doctors,” Theon grumbled quietly, so only Willas heard him.

“Can you fix it?” Sansa’s voice quivered slightly.

“Of course I can,” the other woman snapped. “That’s why Theon called _me_. I’m the best doctor in the entire Capital.”

“And you’re an absolute fucking moron,” he heard Theon mutter under his breath.

The comment might have made Willas laugh if there wasn’t a sudden, stabbing, blinding pain radiating from his bad knee. “ _Arrgh!_ ” The muffled scream was not nearly powerful enough to express the level of anguish he was now in. He bit down on the gag and tried to shoot up again, but three people sitting on various parts of his body proved more than enough to keep him pinned securely to the bed. There was another stab and the cool feel of metal against his bare skin that sent a shiver all the way down his spine.

“Why didn’t we sedate him?” he heard Sansa complain. “He’s crying!”

“Yes, with joy I hope,” he heard the Master of the Games sneer in response. “We’re saving the boy’s life, Sansa.”

“But _still_ —”

There was pinch somewhere on his right thigh, and the pain shooting from his knee abruptly dissipated. The absence of that horrible throbbing alone almost made him cry for joy, even if the pain had been replaced by a strange numbness. “Fuck,” he breathed when Theon finally rolled off him.

“Is it done? Will he be able to run now?”

“Of course he’ll be able to run,” the doctor answered, sounding disgruntled. “He’ll need to stay off it for the next few hours but after that it will be fine.” Willas wanted to look up at them, but the black spots clouding his vision were making it difficult to see much of anything. “I told you, I’m the best doctor in the Capital. Isn’t that right, Theon?”

“Thank you for services, Dr. Rosby,” Petyr Baelish said evenly. “They are much appreciated. Now, for that matter of your payment…”

“100,000 and as much time with Theon as I want, for free,” Dr. Rosby cut in. “That was the deal, yes?”

“That _was_ the deal.” Baelish’s voice sounded much the same as it had before, but Willas now sensed something almost sinister underneath his pleasant tone. The spots finally began to fade away, and he was able to sit up to take in the full picture of the room. Sansa was at his side where Theon had been moments ago. One of her hands was awkwardly hovering around his, but she made no move to actually touch him. On the other side of the room, Theon Greyjoy and Petyr Baelish were standing across from Dr. Rosby. “I’ve amended it slightly, though.”

“Amended it?” the woman hissed. “Master Baelish, I—”

The dagger stuck into her throat before she could say another word, before Willas realized there was even a dagger in Petyr’s hand. Sansa gasped and stumbled back as if she had been struck, but Willas remained still and watched on silently as the life drained from the woman’s wide eyes. _Holy shit. Is this some kind of nightmare?_ “We’ll leave her in one of the underground passages, by the time someone actually finds her we’ll be long gone.”

“You—you killed her,” Sansa stammered out. “She helped us, and you killed her.”

“Don’t feel bad for her,” Theon Greyjoy said, a peculiar, almost detached look in his dark eyes. “She doesn’t deserve your pity.”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not she deserves it,” Petyr added, his eyes locking on Sansa’s with an intensity that made Willas feel like he was intruding on a very private moment. “Look at this as just another one of my lessons, sweetling. Money and sex and declarations of love buy a man’s silence for a while, but a well placed dagger buys it forever.”


	6. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was the monster, not you_ , she remembered telling him, but maybe that was just another lie, maybe they were all monsters. Maybe the Targaryens would ruin her in the arena, would change her into something she never wanted to be, because she had no wings and she sure as hell wasn’t going to just fly away.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Sansa wanted to flee from the room; there was too much blood and the smell of death was already starting to cling to the air. “I—I—” _I want to leave_ , she was trying to say. _I don’t want your help anymore. I don’t want you killing any more people for me. I just want to leave._

“You think it’s over after you win, that they’ll give you the money and the house and then leave you the hell alone. But they don’t. They’re never done with you. They can never take enough.” Theon’s unexpected statement cut off her frantic search for words. He was glaring at her, though his voice remained nearly emotionless. “The Capital made me into a glorified whore after I won. And _she_ paid the most. Even fancied herself in love with me. Can you believe that? She was willing to bargain for a boy’s life with my cock, as if anyone has the fucking right to bargain with it but me. She thought she could own me. She thought she was a superior creature because she was born here, and I was born in a district… that I ought to have been _grateful_ she’d touch me. And trust me, she’s far from the only one around here who thinks like that, Stark, so untwist your panties, and get to work worrying about your own life and the lives of your people instead of hers.”

_Is it that obvious I’m freaking out?_ She thought she had trained herself to hide emotions better than that, and this was hardly the first person she had seen killed. Theon’s words forced her to calm down, to erase the panic and horror that must have been written all over her face. But the more she considered what he said, the more the guilty pain in her stomach began to subside until it was replaced with something that felt more like anger—anger over what had been done to Theon Greyjoy and so many others like him. “I—I’m sorry, Theon.”

“Greyjoy, let’s clean this mess up and leave these two to… talk things over,” Petyr said. After rummaging through the doctor’s metallic case, he pulled out a small bottle and splashed a clear liquid on to the floor. The pool of blood dissolved and disappeared almost instantly. “I have a feeling Tyrell is more than a little confused by this point.”

She had forgotten Willas was even there. When she turned to look at him, his eyes were flitting anxiously between the three of them. His hands were clasped around his bad knee, which he had drawn up closer to his chest, as if afraid one of them might try to steal it from him. “Yes, I—I would like to know what the hell just happened.”

Theon snorted. “I bet you would. Stark will fill you in. _We_ have a body to move.”

Petyr grimaced when Theon locked his hands under the woman’s shoulders and a fresh stream of blood spilled from her neck and ran down the lab coat. “Thank the gods I didn’t wear my new silk trousers,” he muttered. He turned back to Sansa and Willas and looked just as irritated with them as he did with the blood. “Sansa will explain everything to you, Tyrell. Tomorrow, you’ll tell the cleaning woman you got a rather nasty bloody nose and that's why your sheets are a mess. Other than that, you’re not to speak a word about any of this after this night. The walls have ears, and you can trust no one but us. I promise that I will destroy you and everything and everyone you have ever loved if a single word of this leaks outside this room, or if you lay a hand on Miss Stark tonight. Do you understand?”

Willas swallowed and nodded. His wide eyes flickered over to Sansa. “I—I yes, I understand, Master Baelish.”

“Perfect.” Theon rolled his eyes and slammed his foot down on a floorboard near the room’s large, mahogany dresser. The dresser and floor underneath it shifted slightly, revealing the small, underground passageway they had used to enter the room.

“Seven hells,” Willas whispered.

“I told you the walls have ears, boy.” But Petyr was no longer looking at Willas Tyrell; his eyes were now focused on Sansa. He strode across the room and stopped in front of her to whisper, “Win the boy over. Make it so he wouldn’t even dream of betraying you, but never forget what I’ve taught you. Trust no one.” The feel of his breath against her ear made her shiver. “We can only trust each other.” After pressing a brief kiss to her jaw and running his fingers through her hair once more, he walked back to Theon and bent his knees to lift up the other half of the doctor’s body. “Remember my lessons, Sansa, and you’ll survive this. You’ll be the face that changes everything.”

_We’re going to overthrow them. We won’t stop until we’ve taken everything that they hold dear._ Sansa’s heart started racing again, just as it had when Petyr spoke those words to her earlier. “I won’t forget what you’ve taught me, Petyr. Never.”

Petyr smiled at her, and to her surprise, the smile reached his eyes. “Good luck tomorrow. May the odds be ever in your favor.” With that, Theon and Petyr disappeared through the opening in the floor, leaving no trace anything out of the ordinary had just happened aside from Willas’ bloody sheets.

When the dresser shifted back into place, she felt her stomach flutter. She had never been alone with a boy like this before, except with Robb or one of her other brothers, but that was hardly the same thing. Harry Karstark had kissed her once, but that was just behind the weirwood tree in the back of the schoolyard with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel spying on them and giggling the entire time, and she certainly would have never thought to invite him into her room _alone_.

“So,” Willas began slowly, “Are we about to incite a rebellion or something?”

Sansa laughed, long and loudly. This was really no time to be laughing. A woman had just been murdered in front of her, and Willas’ knee looked like a swollen, bloody ruin, but she simply couldn’t stop herself. How had she ended up here? It seemed like only yesterday she was just a silly little girl talking with Jeyne about which boys in their class were the cutest and complaining to Mother about how Arya had ruined another one of her dresses… and now, now she was about to help attempt an overthrow of the government, and she was brining this poor, unsuspecting boy down with her.

Willas flinched and looked frightened of her for a moment. _Well, that’s what you get for laughing like a madwoman._ “Yes,” she finally answered, breathless. “Can you believe it? Petyr says I’m going to be the face of a revolution. He says he’s going to kill the dragon, and the President, and destroy the Capital, and I almost believe that he can actually do it. But he’s not the first person to attempt a revolution; it didn’t go so well for the others. Gods, it’s going to take a miracle for us to survive this. Bet you wish you had stayed far, far away from me now.”

There was a moment of silence. Sansa stared straight ahead, afraid to look at him, afraid he wouldn’t want any part of this and she’d be alone again. “No,” Willas finally said, “I don’t.” She furrowed her eyebrows, caught off guard by his response, particularly how calm it was. “If I’m going to die, I’d rather it be because I was trying to take dfown the bastards that brought us here, not as their sick idea of entertainment. I’ll do whatever it takes, whatever you need me to do to make this work, whatever the hell _this_ is.”

_I’ll do whatever it takes._ Hearing that he was on her side, that he was ready to make the necessary sacrifices for this cause was almost enough to make her smile. But there was an ugly voice nagging at her from the back of her mind not to trust the bright-eyed boy yet. People must have made similar declarations to her father for him to risk the safety of his family and the entire Northern District to take on the Targaryens. But words are wind, and the moment Eddard Stark was captured, they all broke their promises quickly enough. They all seemed more than willing to abandon Mayor Stark’s children to the dragons to save themselves. _For all you know, he’s planning on selling you out to the Targaryens tomorrow morning to save his own skin. We never should have involved him._

“Sansa? Sansa, are you all right?”

It was too late to turn back now. Trusting Willas Tyrell was a risk, but one she had no choice but to take. “Petyr says there’s a group called the Resistance in the Wild North preparing to overthrow the Capital. He plans on breaking us out of the arena to join up with them. But he wants the people of the districts to see us on television first, to fall in love with us so that they can put a face to the Revolution. We have to make our way to the edge of the arena and wait for Petyr’s signal. I know what to do from there.” That was all he needed to know. The rest would remain her secret, just in case.

During the explanation, she noticed Willas go from merely pale to ghost white, which made her realize she hadn’t even asked him about his leg yet. “How—how does it feel?”

He winced. “My leg, you mean? It looks a lot worse than it feels but that’s because, well, I can’t really feel it at all.”

_That woman better have been telling the truth._ She moved closer to have a better look at it. There were now two small, metallic circles sticking out on either side of his knee. _We can’t have the Capital noticing those._ The flesh around the circles was purple, bloody, and swollen. _It’s a small blessing he can’t feel it,_ she thought, as she walked over to the sink at the other side of the room. She soaked one of the cloths and then sat on the bed to press it gently to his knee.

Willas hissed and leaned back against the headboard, hands still gripping to the part of his thigh just above the knee. “Seven hells. I hope she didn’t fuck it up worse.”

“She said it would take a few hours.” As she wiped away the crusted blood, she became acutely aware that he was still not wearing any pants. When she glanced up she could see a slight bulge underneath his white underwear. Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, and her hands began to tremble. “I’m sure everything will be fine.” She left the cloth on his knee and sprang back up to her feet, putting some much-needed distance between them.

“Sansa, do you—do you trust Petyr Baelish?”

_No more than I trust you._ “He loved my mother,” she said. “And he hates the Targaryens just as much as we do. Maybe even more than we do.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“We don’t really have any other choice but to trust him, do we?” she sighed. “He’s the best chance we have. He’s the one with all the power. He gave us a chance. He gave you a leg. We owe him some measure of trust, I think.”

Willas bit the corner of his lip. “Yes, I suppose you’ve got the right of it there. I hope I can convince you to trust me.”

“We don’t have any choice but to trust each other. Ramsay Bolton will want to come after me first. We need to get to the edge of the arena as quickly as possible, before anyone has the chance to stop us. There’s no time for second-guessing once we get in there, so you need to be sure you’re willing to do this—”

“I’m willing to do this.”

“—because if you aren’t, you can act like this never happened. I just ask that—”

“Sansa, I’m willing to do this. I don’t want my brothers or my sister to ever have to go through what we’re going through. I want things to be different for them.”

She found herself imagining what it would be like for Bran and Rickon to grow up without the fear of Reaping Day constantly on their minds, a dark cloud hovering over their adolescence. She imagined what it would be like for them to grow up in a world where the name Stark wasn't synonymous with traitor, where Peacekeepers weren't there to monitor their every move, where they were actually free.

“Until Petyr breaks us out, we—we need to give the audience what they want. If they grow bored of us, the President won’t have any reason not to speed up our deaths, and Petyr can only do so much.”

“And—and what they want is for us—for _you_ to fall for _me_ , right?”

“Right,” Sansa said, trying very hard to ignore that he was blushing again. “You’ll play the gallant but shy Florian, and eventually I, Jonquil, will fall for you.” It was all going to be a game, an acted out romance for all of Westeros to see. She was almost disappointed it wouldn’t be real. For so long, all she had wanted was to have her own love story, like Florian and Jonquil’s, but hers would only be a lie.

“I can do that.”

The first cloth had soaked through with blood, so she dampened another and brought it over to him. After draping it across his knee, she made to move away again, but Willas caught her hand. “I knew there was something special about you. When I first saw you, I—I just knew, somehow. I can’t say I ever expected _this_ exactly, but I _knew_.”

Her face suddenly felt hot and focusing on anything but the feeling of his skin against hers was becoming problematic. There was something almost electric about his touch, something that sent a jolt through her body. _Make it so he wouldn’t even dream of betraying you._ Is this feeling what Petyr had meant by that? Did he want her to make Willas feel this way? She squeezed his hand a little and forced herself to smile. “Is that why? I mean, did Aurane have the right of it? Were you—were you staring at me like he said?”

Willas looked down at their entwined hands. “He had the right of it. When I saw you, I just thought…” He paused and fidgeted with his curls. “I really hope this doesn’t come out wrong. I just thought—I thought maybe you were broken like me.”

_Am I broken?_ No, she decided, she wasn’t broken, and neither was he. If they were truly broken, they wouldn’t still be fighting this hard. “When I first saw you, I thought that you had kind eyes,” she said before he could continue. “You can tell a lot about people from their eyes, or at least I can. I know I didn’t act like it before, and I’m sorry for that, but I _am_ glad we were put together in the end. Not too many would be as brave as you’re being about all of this. Most would run straight to the President, I think.”

“I won’t do that, Sansa.”

“I know you won’t.” That was a lie, but she was no stranger to lying, not anymore. “I really should be getting back. We need our sleep. Hopefully when you wake your knee will feel better. I wish we could’ve done it sooner.”

She made to stand, but he pulled at her hand again, stopping her before she got far. “Sansa, I just—I have one more question, and I hope it doesn’t offend you.”

“Ask away.”

“Is there—is there something between you and Baelish?”

_Does he mean romantically?_ Petyr was more than twice her age; he was old enough to be her father. She was tempted to brush the question off and declare the very idea of it ridiculous. But there _was_ something strange about the way Petyr stared at her, so intensely she almost felt naked under it. There was something disconcerting about the way he touched her hair and how his eyes always seemed to linger on her lips. “He loved my mother,” she said simply, working to keep her face from reflecting her thoughts. “I think perhaps he sees me as the daughter he never had. He wants to help me. If helping you helps me, he’ll do it. There’s no need to fear him.”

“Ah, yes, like his daughter,” Willas mumbled, his voice sounding more than a little incredulous. His skepticism annoyed her. She had known Petyr Baelish for years; surely she was a better judge of their relationship than Willas Tyrell.  “Well, I—I won’t keep you any longer.”

Sansa gently extracted her hand from his, immediately missing the warmth of it and the comfort that simple contact had afforded her. Part of her was tempted to remain here with him instead of going back to her cold, lonely room. Part of her thought it might be nice to spend her last night outside the arena in someone’s arms. But she knew his arms weren’t really the ones she wanted; she wanted her father’s, she wanted her mother’s, she wanted Robb’s, Jon’s, Arya’s, Bran’s, and Rickon’s. She wanted Jeyne Poole’s and Beth Cassel’s, or even Harry Karstark’s. She wanted home, and this boy with his rosy cheeks and summer smiles wasn’t home.

She sighed and said, “The next time I see you, they’ll be sending us into the arena.”

Willas nodded, and she thought she saw a flash of disappointment cross his face when she opened up the passageway to leave. “Yes, it’s time for the games to begin…”

 

* * *

 

The hallway was nearly pitch-black, but she could still make out a large figure sitting in front of her door. It was much too large to be Petyr, or Theon, or even Benjen or Maege. In fact, she couldn’t think of anyone so large who would have reason to seek her out this late in the evening. _Is it someone from the Capital? Could Willas have already betrayed me?_

“I thought you’d never fly back to your cage, little bird.”

The voice was harsh, like steel on stone, and left her frozen in place. _Why is he here? What could he want?_

The man grunted as he hauled himself off the ground and back to his feet. When standing he towered over her. It made her feel painfully small, and she wished he had remained seated. “Where have you been all night? Not saying your bedside prayers like a proper little bird, huh? Did you fall into some handsome lad’s arms for comfort? No one can blame someone about to die for getting in a final fuck, or probably a first fuck by the looks of you.” The laugh that followed was loud and just as harsh as his voice. She hoped Uncle Benjen would hear it from his room and come out and make him leave.

“You’re drunk,” she stated calmly. She had been afraid of this giant, scarred man once. As a girl, nearly everyone in the Capital had had a pleasant smile for her but him. He never smiled, just barked and snarled and said the most awful things when her mother wasn’t around to hear him. But then there was that night she got lost exploring the Red Keep, that night she stumbled upon him hunched over in the hall vomiting all over his own shoes… That was the night she caught a glimpse of who Sandor Clegane really was, and that was the night she stopped fearing him. “What do you want, Mr. Clegane?”

“ _Mr. Clegane_ ,” he chuckled. “Still so fucking formal. Since you ask, I just had to see the little bird one last time.” His words slurred together, and he had to lean on the wall to keep from sinking back to the floor. “Not so little anymore now though, are you? Teats like that, it’s almost like you’re a woman.”

_I am a woman, a woman who is about to challenge the Targaryens, which is more than you’ve ever done._ “Well, you’ve seen me.”

He laughed again. “Not properly, not in this fucking darkness. Why don’t you let me inside your cage?”

She considered her next words carefully. As confident as she was he wouldn’t hurt her, she still didn’t trust him enough to allow him inside of her room, especially in his current state. “Mr. Clegane, I—”

“No, your mother taught you better than that,” he interrupted. “Never let strange, drunk men into your room, little bird.” He stumbled forward, and she had to step to the side to avoid being knocked over. “You used to sing the prettiest little songs. Do you still sing, girl?”

_I’ll have a song from you one of these days._ She had promised to sing him Florian and Jonquil back then, in the hallway. _Is that what he came for? A song promised years ago?_ “No, I have not felt like singing in a very long time.”

“A shame,” he said. “Not since they crushed all of your pretty little dreams, I’d reckon. You used to fucking love this place, and don’t you even try to deny it. You wanted to be one of them. It all looked so shiny and expensive and _nice_ that you didn’t see how ugly it really was. I told you they would take everything someday. I told you. And now you’ll be a murderer just like the rest of them. Just like me, and your father, and—”

“My father was a good man,” she snapped.

“And he was a killer,” Sandor sneered. “Just like me. Just like your mother. And I’ll bet they loved it too, your parents, especially your mother, the way the sun glistens on freshly spilled blood, the way the cowardly ones scream just before your—”

“Stop it,” she interrupted again, tears pooling in her eyes. “Just stop it! My parents are dead! Why did you even come here, just to rub it in that I was wrong? That I was a fool? I was _kind_ to you, and you still insist on being _awful_.”

“It’s the world that’s awful, not me,” he countered. “Killing is the sweetest thing there is, little bird. You’ll see that soon, if you mean to live.”

She shuddered. “I don’t want to kill anyone.”

He staggered forward again, so his back was now turned to her. “Of course you don’t, but you will to stay alive.” He paused to take a long, shaking breath. “When you hit the arena, don’t go for the supplies. They’ll look tempting, but running into that mess will get you killed before you can even blink. Leave it all behind and fly away as fast as you can. Find water and then hide in the trees like a proper bird. There’s bound to be plenty of trees. Wait for the rest of them to pick each other off like the beasts that they are while you just fly away.”

Her eyes scanned over the broad expanse of his back, as she recalled what his face looked like—the scarred, blackened ruin that was the left side, his hooked nose, and his furious, slate gray eyes. She considered that he was waiting for her to thank him. In a way, she did owe him some gratitude, much the same way she owed Petyr. If not for his harsh words, she’s sure that her father’s rebellion would have come as more of a shock, that the President’s vile treatment of her family would have hurt that much more. “Why are you trying to help me?”

He snorted and continued to stumble down the hall. “Don’t let them ruin you like everything else.” He walked further away from her with each word, and she wasn’t sure if he was even still talking to her. “They’ll try to ruin you too, but you can just fly away. Just fly away like a little bird. That’s what I told _her_.”

She watched him disappear into the shadows and didn’t dare move until she finally heard the slam of the door at the far end of the corridor. It had been years since she last saw his face, since he had told her about his brother and the fire and the day he was reaped. This encounter left her feeling nearly as shaken as the last one. _He was the monster, not you,_ she remembered telling him, but maybe that was just another lie, maybe they were all monsters. Maybe the Targaryens _would_ ruin her in the arena, would change her into something she never wanted to be, because she had no wings and she sure as hell wasn’t going to just fly away.

 

* * *

 

A sharp, almost searing pain shot up Willas Tyrell’s thigh every time he bent his right knee. He relished the pain, loved the pain because the pain really didn’t matter at all; it was the fact that he could actually _bend_ his fucking knee, a simple task he hadn’t been able to perform properly since he was twelve-years-old.

“Are you all right?”

Sansa’s eyes were wide with concern, and only grew wider when he answered with a grin so enthusiastic it must have looked at least ridiculous if not completely mad. “Yes, why?”

“You’ve been alternating between wincing and grinning like a fool for the last ten minutes,” she whispered. Her eyes glanced up at the ceiling and then to the walls, and he knew she was worried they were being spied on. “Just wanted to make sure my partner hadn’t lost his mind twenty minutes before we’re due to be tossed into the arena.”

Willas didn’t think he had gone crazy. He was just happy, albeit happy in a slightly twisted, crazy sort of way. At that moment, he didn’t care about the arena. He just wanted to run. He wanted to jump. He wanted to pick Sansa Stark up, carry to her to the far side of the room, and press her against the wall to kiss her breathless. “I just had a good night’s sleep, is all.” The way she nodded made it clear she understood the message, though he still wished he could really tell her, could loudly proclaim he was no longer a cripple.

When he smiled at her again, she huffed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “All your smiling is making me nervous. The games are about to begin, remember? There’s going to be eighteen people trying to murder us in approximately fifteen minutes.”

_Yes, but it’ll be a lot fucking harder for them now that I can run._

“And your—your leg,” she added, “is _untested_. It has been a long time since you’ve tried to walk without your cane. It will be quite the challenge, I think.”

Her real meaning was not lost on him. The reality of it crashed over him like a bucket of ice water, dousing his stupid daydreams, and his smile was abruptly replaced with a frown. _You haven’t run since you were twelve. Did you think you’d miraculously be fast and agile because a strange woman stuck a piece of metal into your knee?_

“I’ll make for the Cornucopia when the bell sounds. You can hang behind and wait for me. And call out if you see someone about to sneak up on me.”

It was a perfectly reasonable plan. Sansa had been walking and running around on two good legs for far longer than him and was probably significantly faster as a result. She was smaller too and graceful, a more difficult target for chucked axes and flying spears. But the idea of hanging behind and simply _watching_ while she ran into danger bothered him. He had been leaning on others for so long. For once, he wanted to be the one being leaned on. He wanted to be the warrior, the protector, the knight in shining fucking armor, and he wanted to be all of those things for this strange, beautiful girl who, in reality, he knew hardly anything about. But he forced himself to bury those urges and his pride and nodded his assent.

The door of the holding room swung open before he could say anything more. His grandmother walked in with her two assistants at her heels. They were both remarkably tall women that towered over his tiny, hunched over grandmother. She confessed to him during one of her rare visits to the Reach that she always seemed to forget their names and had taken to referring to them as Left and Right instead.

“Brace yourselves, because your outfits are utterly horrid.” Grandmother scowled when Left and Right held up two long, black jumpsuits. “And expect it to be bloody cold in there. These monstrosities are thicker than they look and insulated like the coats they give to the poor bastards they send to fetch the tributes in the Ice District.”

_Oh gods, please don’t let there be snow._ He had never really seen snow aside from a few light dustings in the heart of winter, if you could even call the colder months in the Reach winter, but he was fairly certain he wouldn’t like it.

“A Northern climate?” Sansa mumbled, as she reached out to run a hand over her jumpsuit. “Have they done that before?”

Grandmother snorted. “They tried it once a few years after I won. Practically everyone froze to death. One of the Ice District kids ended up winning basically by default, though he lost a hand and more than a few toes to the cold. Blood looks pretty against white snow, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it for the President’s taste. They seemed to consider it a failed experiment back then, but perhaps they’ve decided to try again…”

Willas closed his eyes and tried to push aside the image of dark crimson blood—his blood, Sansa’s blood—splashed against white snow. Someone tugging at the buttons of his trousers snapped him out of it. “No!” he exclaimed, swatting away the assistant’s hand.

She looked taken aback and as if she was seriously considering slapping him. “He didn’t mean any offense. He’s just modest,” Sansa interjected smoothly, before the woman could react. “Is it okay if I help him into the suit instead?”

The assistant narrowed her eyes. “No, we can’t just leave you two alone to dress. We’ve been ordered to strip you down to just your underwear first, any extra clothing under the suit would be an unfair advantage in the arena.”

“I’ll watch them,” Grandmother said, giving Willas a curious look. “You two just turn around for a second, and I’ll make sure they don’t break any rules.”

The assistant grumbled something under her breath and the other one scowled, but they both complied. Willas quickly tossed away his clothes and reached for the suit before they changed their minds. One of them noticing the state of his knee could end his life before he even entered the arena. As he shimmied into his suit, he noticed Grandmother’s eyes fall on his leg and widen slightly.

“All right, you two, go on and zip them up,” Grandmother snapped when he and Sansa had their arms and legs inside, offering no hint she had seen anything out of the ordinary. After they were fully dressed, complete with fur-lined hats, thick, black boots, and gloves, the assistants finally left. “And how did you manage that then, my boy?” Grandmother asked the moment they were alone.

“That’s not important,” Sansa answered for him. “Best not to discuss it.”

Grandmother gave Sansa a long, appraising look and nodded. “You just might be shrewder than I gave you credit for, girl. Take care of this one, will you? The world will only be that much darker if he leaves it.” The comment touched him, and he almost wished his grandmother would have given him a hug or even a kiss before the doors of the elevator that would deliver him to the arena swung open and the clock began to tick.

“I’ll try,” he heard Sansa whisper. She had taken off a glove and was fidgeting with her mockingbird pin when they stepped into the large elevator, each on to their own platform. She was frantically trying to get the pin to slide through the sturdy fabric of the snowsuit. Without thinking, Willas took off his own gloves and leaned forward to replace her hands with his. A jolt shot through him when their skin touched, just as it had the night before, but he forced himself to disregard it and keep his hands still. The better angle allowed him to push the pin through and fasten it securely to her chest.

“It’s beautiful,” he told her, as the door closed and the platforms beneath them began to rise. “The stones match your eyes.”

She managed a small smile. “I run, and you wait.” He nodded. “I run, and you wait,” she repeated more firmly.

“Don’t trust me?” he chuckled.

She bit her lip. “I trust you, Willas; I just need to hear you say it.”

He knew she didn’t mean it, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he trusted her either, but he still smiled and said, “You run, and I wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering where Jon, Arya, & Co. are, I promise they will be back next chapter.
> 
> Also, time for the games to begin! Thanks for reading!


	7. Famous Last Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was snow everywhere. That was the first and perhaps the only thing Willas Tyrell noticed about the arena when his platform finally stopped, that and the fact that it was really fucking _cold_.

“Do we know anything more about Sansa yet?”

Jon sighed and looked up at her with weary, bloodshot eyes. “Since you asked me ten minutes ago? Shockingly, no.”

Arya Stark answered with a glare that had struck fear into fiercer men than her brother, but he merely shrugged and went back to looking through the stack of papers in front of him. “The Games started today! What the fuck are our spies good for if they don’t send us any information, huh? What good—?”

“Arya,” Jon cut in, holding up a hand, “The second anything about Sansa comes in, I’ll find you. You’re the first person to know. Deal?”

She nodded and tried to ignore the painful twisting in her stomach. For all she knew, Sansa was already dead, struck down by Ramsay Bolton or one of the other tributes before she even stood a chance. “I’m worried about her,” she confessed. There were few things Arya disliked more than talking about her feelings, but Jon was different, Jon had always understood her even when no one else seemed to. “With that limping Reach boy—”

“I told you, she still stands a chance,” he insisted. “She was always strong in her own way. And if she manages to hide out long enough, we’ll be able to get her out of there. We’re going to get her out of there, Arya.” She wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her of that fact or himself but believing him seemed a superior option to assuming her sister was dead.

“Yeah, you’re right,” she sighed. “Thanks, Jon.”

“Wait, Arya, I need you to do me a favor.” She stopped in front of the door and turned to see Jon scribbling on a piece of paper. “The President asked me to remind our aircraft mechanic of a few things, but between waiting for information on Sansa and reading over all of these attack plans, I don’t think I’ll have time to head that way today. Could you drop this off with him? And make sure the stubborn git actually reads it before he throws it out like last time.”

“Aircraft mechanic? What aircraft mechanic?”

Jon pressed the note into her hand. “He’s working on the plane we’re using to get into the Capital, and that’s—”

“All you can tell me,” Arya finished for him, rolling her eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. So that means I get to go to the basement then?”

“Yes, just tell them I sent you. I signed the note, so they shouldn’t give you any trouble. The mechanic—”

“Will be the one under the plane. Yeah, I’m not dense, Jon.” She crumpled up the note and then shoved it into her pocket. Jon winced at that, which only made her smile. “Hey, Jon, don’t stay in here all day, all right? If you get any paler, you’ll start blending in with all this fucking snow.”

“That’s the goal,” Jon laughed. “Now out you go!” He added, before guiding her a little too enthusiastically through the door and shutting it abruptly behind her without another word. Arya scoffed and considered throwing the door back open to ask what Ygritte would do if he ever shoved _her_ out of his office like that, but the prospect of finally seeing the mysterious basement proved enticing enough for her to let it go this once.

When she arrived, neither the basement nor the mechanic ended up being anything like she had expected. The basement was as drab and dingy as the rest of the compound. Other than a few grease-covered men, there really wasn’t all that much to see. The most exciting thing she came across was the enormous Capital strike plane she couldn’t believe someone had actually managed to sneak out of the Capital and get underground. Though considerably rusted, it was beautiful in its own way—sleek, metallic, and powerful looking.

The young mechanic she found grumbling underneath the plane was nearly as powerful looking himself. By the way Jon had described him— _bull-headed and irritable, always telling me and Mance we have no idea what we’re talking about_ —she had expected someone like Mikken, the grumpy old man back in the Northern District who used to fix their oven and made Arya’s first sword for her. But this man was certainly not old— _only a few years older than me and building a freaking plane_ , she thought, with a twinge of envy—and instead of grumbling when he saw her, he grinned, revealing a rather stunning set of pearly white teeth.

“Ah, if it isn’t the fairer Stark! I’d shake your hand, my lady, but I think you’ll thank me if I don’t,” he laughed, as he wiped his greasy palms on the front of his pants. “Your brother told me to watch out for you, but you don’t look so dangerous.”

 _Remember to kick Jon in the shins later._ “Jon wanted me to give you this.” She shoved the wrinkled note at him.

He muttered something under his breath but took it and pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Anything else?” He grinned at her again, his midnight blue eyes lighting up as he did, and she felt her stomach twist in a very different way than when she had been worrying about Sansa earlier.

“Yeah, he told me to make sure you read it. So read it.”

“No, not just yet. I like having company when I’m working on Betha here.” There was something odd about his voice, a slight twang at the end of some of his words. She figured he must have been from one of the districts closer to the Capital where they talked funny.

“You want me to just stand around and watch you work?”

He laughed and she felt his eyes lingering on places like her lips and her neck for far longer than they should have. Boys had looked at Sansa and Jeyne Poole like this man was looking at her all the time, but they never looked at Arya like that. Arya was one of the boys, the friend, and she wondered, annoyed, if he was just purposely trying to make her feel awkward. “Well, no, I was hoping we could have some sort of conversation while I’m working. First things first though, my name is Gendry. Gendry Waters.”

“Arya Stark.”

“I know,” he said. “Your reputation precedes you.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “Can you just read the note? I can’t stand around here all day, you know. I have things to do.”

He ignored the request and reached for one of his toolboxes instead. Her stomach fluttered, as she watched him haul it over to the plane. The action made her realize just how enormous his arms were. The way his muscles flexed under the strain of the box had her mesmerized for a moment, until he smirked and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to watch me work then?”

She sputtered, suddenly very aware of her tongue. “N—no, why would I want to watch you work? I don’t know anything about planes.”

“I could teach you. Your brother said you like a challenge.” He ran a hand over the outside of a plane like he was caressing a lover—it made her stomach flutter again. “My Betha has had a rough couple of years, but she’s still a beautiful piece of machinery. I’ll have her up and running like new before we head to the Capital, and with no thanks to your brother’s constant pestering.”

“How exactly did we manage to steal a Capital strike plane? And why in the seven hells do you keep calling it Betha?”

He snorted. “ _I_ stole her, so I got to name her, that’s why. I found her rotting away in one of the Capital junkyards, just waiting to be sent off to the Western District to be broken down into scrap metal. My friend and I just barely managed to fly it out here. It was a right miracle we weren’t caught along the way. Hot Pie and I aren’t exactly known for our stealth.”

 _What’s a Hot Pie? And, wait, does that mean—? No, no, it can’t._ “Was the junkyard in the Western District?”

His smile faltered. “No, it was in the Capital.”

“So that means—”

“I’m a Crownlander, yeah,” he sighed, backing away from her, as if he expected her to lunge at him. “And I know the entire bloody song and dance, so don’t bother with it. No, I’m not a mole for the Capital. I’d be killed before I could even open my mouth if I walked up to someone in the Targaryen Administration. And, yes, I’m well aware I never had to live with the Reaping Day hanging over my head, I never had to go hungry, and I never had to—”

“It wasn’t meant as an accusation, so relax, would you?” Arya interrupted. If Jon and Mance trusted this mechanic, then she would too, but she could understand why some of the others were giving him a hard time. She had grown up despising the Crownlanders even more than Sansa had envied them. The way they used the children of the districts for their entertainment, their stupid haircuts, their ridiculous accents, their clothing adorned with bits of gold that would feed a district family for an entire year, she hated it all. But Gendry Waters looked nothing like any Crownlander she had ever seen. He didn’t look phony like rest of them—his hair was black like hers, his eyes were spectacularly and naturally blue, his skin was dark with a tan and covered in black hair, and his accent wasn’t nearly as strong as the ones she heard on television. “You don’t look much like a Crownlander.”

He shrugged. “I was never a typical one, I guess. I’m a bastard. Don’t remember much about my mother, she died when I was young, but there were rumors she got me off a young man from the one of the districts that won his Games. They all thought me tainted because of it, so I joined the Capital’s army when I was barely a teenager just so I’d have some place where I fit. The Capital’s army is a different world. It’s all about discipline. No one dyes his hair or wears fancy clothes there.”

Arya nodded and wondered why he was telling her all of this. Some of it seemed awfully personal to be sharing with a girl he had just met, but, then again, her mother had always complained she was an impenetrable fortress when it came to feelings, so maybe this was normal. “Oh,” she said, wringing her hands together behind her back. “So why did you leave?”

A shadow passed over his face, and the grin he had greeted her with disappeared. “There was only so much I could take.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Arya figured he had done enough sharing for one day. “Well, lucky for us you brought a plane with you, and secrets from the Capital’s army, I imagine,” she said to fill the silence. She ran her fingertips lightly over one of the windows. “I’ve never seen one of these up close before, just a couple flying over the Northern District every now and then, and when—” _When I stowed away with my father’s army_ , she almost said, but even if he was ready to share the details of his life, she wasn’t. “—and on television.”

“Want to see the inside?”

Arya’s stomach lurched. The plane suddenly didn’t seem as large as it had before, and something about going inside it with just him felt too _intimate_. “No, I told you, I have important things to do,” she said, tapping her foot impatiently on the ground. “Will you just read Jon’s note? Are you even actually the aircraft mechanic? You look too stupid to be taking apart planes.”

His eyebrows furrowed, which only served to actually make him look stupid, like he was thinking so hard it hurt. If she had not been trying to look serious at that moment, she might have laughed. “Well, aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine in this dark basement of mine?” he grumbled, as he finally pulled out Jon’s note. His eyes scanned over it for no longer than a few seconds before he crushed it in his fist and tossed it behind him. “Yeah, just like I thought, absolute rubbish. Tell your brother to leave this to the professionals, eh? After you do all those _important things_ you have to do first, of course.”

“Tell him yourself. I’m busy.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the basement, trying to convince herself that her heart was only beating so fast because of the stinking fumes that filled the place.

She found herself back at the top level of the compound with an abundance of nervous energy and absolutely nothing to do. It was one of her few days off from putting together weapons in the factory, and she didn’t want to waste it just standing around or staring stupidly at the blue-eyed, Crownlander mechanic, so she went to her favorite place in the entire compound—the training room.

Arya had always and would always prefer her sword to any other weapon, but that didn’t stop her from loving the way the sleek, black metal of the bow felt in her hands and the rush she got when her arrows struck all of the vital points on the training dummy. The bows here were nothing like the wooden ones she had used at home. It was a modern design one of the weapons experts from the Western District had thought up. But her awe over the bow was nothing compared to her awe over the guns. Never did she imagine that one day she would actually get to shoot one. When she heard the pop of the guns from the nearby shooting range, she wished it was her turn to practice with them today, but this would have to do for now.

She pulled out another arrow and prepared to shoot. This time, instead of seeing the training dummy, she saw President Aerys Targaryen staring back at her, she saw President Viserys Targaryen, and she saw Roose Bolton and his pale gray eyes… She saw Meryn Trant, the Peacekeeper she had despised the most. She saw Ramsay Bolton carving into her brother’s face. She saw Masters Blackfyre and Baelish standing on television, smiles on their faces, as a new game was announced. She saw the faces of the Northern men and women who betrayed her father to the Capital and left his children to fend for themselves.

“ _Viserys, Roose, Ramsay, Varys, Petyr, Arnolf, Barbrey,_ ” she whispered the names with each arrow she loosed, as if she was reciting a prayer. “ _Viserys, Roose, Ramsay, Varys, Petyr, Arnolf, Barbrey… Viserys, Roose, Ramsay, Varys, Petyr, Arnolf, Barbrey…_ ”

“What does it mean?”

She yelped and nearly dropped the bow. It had been a long time since someone had managed to sneak up on her. _This man must move as quietly as a shadow._ “What do you want?” she snapped.

“I want to know what it means. That’s why I asked.”

She hadn’t seen him around the compound before; at least she didn’t think she had. He was a rather unremarkable looking man with a short white beard and dark, beady eyes. _But he has a kind face_. “It’s just—just names, is all.”

“Whose names?”

“Just names,” she huffed. “Why do you care?"

He laughed softly, as he turned to stare at the arrow-littered training dummy. “You’re angry. That’s good, as long as you learn to channel it properly, of course. I could help you with that. And you’re hungry, aren’t you, Arya Stark? Hungry for a great many things.”

 _Hungry for vengeance. Hungry for war. Hungry to see their heads chopped off just like they did to Father._ “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“I am no one.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He smiled at her, and she almost felt bad for snapping at such a kind-looking man. “Would you like to play a bigger part in this war, Arya Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark?”

 _Yes_ , she thought, but she only continued to stare at him, trying to work out if this was all just some kind of joke she didn’t understand yet.

“Yes, I can see the hunger,” he said again, his dark eyes locking on her own. “You try to hide it from the others, but I can see it as easily as I see your face. I hope we meet again, Arya Stark.” With that, he nodded to her and started to walk away.

“Wait! You still didn’t tell me your name!”

If he heard her shout, he made no sign of it, just kept walking until he disappeared through the training room door. “What the hell?”

“What was all that about? Did I just see you pick a fight with that poor old man, little Stark?” Jon’s friend Pyp walked toward her with a playful grin on his face and a sword slung over his shoulder.

“I told you not to call me that, monkey,” she replied, flicking one of his huge ears. “And no, I was not picking a fight. _He_ came up to _me_. Do you know who he is?”

Pyp swatted her hand away and shrugged. “Not really, but I’ve seen him before. He hangs around with those freaks in the black and white robes. They’re all really weird about giving their names.”

“Black and white robes?”

“Yeah, you know, the Ice District natives, the ones who survived the dragons the Targaryens sent to wipe them out. They had already set up a good portion of this base by the time we got here. They’re a little creepy, but they’re on our side… Well, at least the President seems to think they are, anyways.”

 _They survived the dragons?_ If Arya had known that, she would have sought out these freaks in the black and white robes months ago to ask them a thousand questions. She wondered what exactly the old man was getting at when he asked if she wanted to play a bigger role in this war. As she plucked her arrows out of the dummy, she decided she would track the kindly man down and demand an answer.

 

* * *

 

There was snow everywhere. That was the first and perhaps the only thing Willas Tyrell noticed about the arena when his platform finally stopped, that and the fact that it was really fucking _cold._

Before he could make any other brilliant observations or even look around at the other tributes circling the Cornucopia, Aurane’s voice rang out through the arena. “Welcome, tributes! Before the Games begin, we have one last twist to throw at you—well, one _more_ twist, perhaps not the _last_ ,” he giggled. “So here it is and listen closely: if at any point during these Games your partner dies, we will take _whatever_ we deem most important to you away.”

From a few platforms away, he could hear Ramsay Bolton muttering something and scowling at his partner, poor little Alysanne Bulwer. The gods, if there were any, and the people of the Capital were truly cruel when they allowed that pairing to happen, but at least now Ramsay couldn’t just kill her and be done with it, he’d be forced to protect her for his own sake. Though Bolton was one of the few tributes Willas suspected he would have no guilt taking out, he almost hoped the bastard survived until Baelish arrived for them so that maybe they could take Alysanne with them.

“ _Nothing_ you have is off limits to us, so keep that mind if you’re thinking about leaving your partner behind and striking out on your own,” Aurane continued, sounding positively gleeful. “It might just be the last thing you do! And, now, let the countdown begin!”

 _Fantastic. In a minute, I’ll probably be dead, and now I’ll be taking Sansa down with me._ The new rule meant he had to try that much harder to stay alive. It was no longer just his life at stake, it was lovely, stoic Sansa Stark’s, the future face of the revolution, as well.

“…59…58…57…”

“Think about what you’re doing!” The high-pitched voice from the girl positioned directly next to him nearly spooked him off his platform. It was the female tribute from the Ocean District whose name he seemed to have forgotten. She was standing near the edge of her platform with her arms raised toward the sky like she was giving a sermon. “They’re using your bodies, your _lives_ as their entertainment! They pulled you away from your homes and your families to kill and scream and die for them! But they can’t force you to kill each other, and they can’t force you to amuse them! Think about what you’re doing! Don’t give them what they want! We can all end this right here, right now! We can let them know they don’t own us!”

Willas noticed the girl’s partner glancing nervously at her and calling out something he couldn’t quite make out over the speech. “Think about what you’re doing and make the right choice! Follow my lead, and make your last act one of defiance! Make them see that they don’t own you! Make them see that they don’t own any of us! They’ll never see it if you don’t make them! Follow me!” With that final appeal, she stepped over the edge of her platform.

“…13…12…11…”

Willas knew exactly what was about to happen, but he was too stunned to duck or scream or do anything at all before the platform exploded underneath the girl’s body. Clumps of dirt and bloody chunks of human flesh all erupted from the spot, smashing into Willas with so much force that he nearly went flying off his own platform. He had to fall to his knees and grip the metallic edge of the platform to keep from accidentally tumbling to his death.

One especially large piece of the Ocean District girl’s platform smacked into the side of his head. After that, he couldn’t make out any sounds around him aside from the ringing in his ears. The thick smoke radiating from the explosion site obstructed his vision. He had no idea if the countdown was still in progress or if the other tributes had all commenced their mad dash to the Cornucopia.

 _Stand up, Willas. You at least need to stand up._ He pushed himself up but almost immediately started swaying and stumbling forward until he hit the ground with a grunt and sunk down into the snow. A vicious pain shot through his new knee and up his leg but that was nothing compared to the crippling fear beginning to overwhelm him. From the smoke, he could now hear screams and grunts and desperate cries for help, and somehow all of them sounded like Sansa. _Where is she? Oh gods, let her be okay. She has to be okay._

When he pushed himself up again, he noticed a shadowy figure growing closer and closer to his position through the smoke. “Sansa?” he called, moving forward in a daze. “Sansa, we need to—” Before he could finish, some of the smoke began to clear. Willas cried out and stumbled backwards when he realized it was the male tribute from the Ocean District barreling toward him with a sword in his hand, not Sansa. He tried to make his legs support him, tried to make them run far away from Rion Celtigar and his sword, but nearly every step he took sent him staggering back to the ground. _So this is how it’s going to end…_

Just as Celtigar raised the sword and Willas opened his mouth to scream, a dagger materialized from the smoke and struck the boy in the neck just below his jaw. Blood spurted from the wound on to the white snow and Willas’ suit, and the sword fell from his hand. Sansa appeared moments later, panicked and red with exertion. She pulled the dagger from Celtigar’s neck and threw the sword at Willas, who only stared at it. “Pick it up and bloody _move_!” she cried, grabbing his elbow. “We need to _move_! _She’s_ coming for me!”

Willas staggered to his feet, limply gripping the sword as commanded even though he was certain he had neither the strength nor the clarity of mind to actually wield it at that point. Sansa moved forward, still holding on to his arm. He tried to match her pace, but with every step his feet sank deeper into the snow, and it felt like someone had taken to shoving a burning dagger into his right knee over and over again. “Sansa, please, I can’t—”

A soft _whoosh_ by his ear cut off the plea, and he screamed when he saw an ax fly in front of him and land in a tree trunk with a morbid thud. _That couldn’t have been more than inch from my head._ “She’s not going to miss again, Willas!” Sansa shouted, pulling at his arm more insistently. “Run, or we die here!”

He bit down so hard on his lip he could taste blood, but he forced his legs forward, forced them to go faster because he was not going to die here, not now, especially not when he would almost certainly kill Sansa in the process. It still felt like someone was stabbing his knee and his head was pounding so violently he could barely stand to keep his eyes open, but he made himself focus on the back of Sansa’s head, made himself keep listening to the crunch of the snow underneath his boots, made himself block out everything else.

After what felt like hours but could have been only been minutes for all Willas knew, he felt his knee lock. Before he could warn Sansa, his body collapsed forward. He threw the sword to the side to avoid impaling himself but couldn’t avoid knocking Sansa down with him. Other than a small squeak, she didn’t make a sound, but Willas moaned loudly into the snow, cradling his aching knee to his chest. “Sansa, Sansa, please, I _can’t_ ,” he begged, ashamed of the weakness in his voice and the tears in his eyes.

Sansa sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He flinched when her fingertips moved over where the piece of platform had struck him. “You’re injured,” she said. “In more places than one. We should have stopped sooner. Come on, let me get you under one of these trees where the snow isn’t so heavy.”

She tucked herself under one of his arms, wrapping hers around his waist. Though tall for her age, she was still barely more than a slip of a girl, not nearly enough to support his weight, but somehow they managed to make it under a large tree with thick branches. She left him there and returned a moment later with the sword in her hands. “Sansa, I—I’m sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine, Willas,” Sansa panted, clutching at her chest when she fell to the ground next to him. “I couldn’t have lasted much longer anyways, and it’ll be dark soon. You did just fine.” After taking a few more deep breaths, she pulled off a gray backpack Willas hadn’t even realized she had been wearing and dumped out its contents. “It was next to the daggers.” There was a coil of rope, a black, cylindrical thermos, a couple of bandages, a bag of dried fruit and nuts, a sleeve of crackers, and an odd-looking pair of mittens.

Sansa looked fascinated by the items, but all Willas could concentrate on was how badly he needed a drink of water. _Well, luckily there’s water everywhere here._ He reached out and scooped up a handful of the snow.

“Don’t you dare eat that; Father always said it wouldn’t quench your thirst, only make you colder, and I don’t need you getting hypothermia on me,” Sansa scolded before the snow touched his lips. She knocked it out of his hand and held up the thermos. “We’ll put some of the snow inside here and wait for it to melt. It won’t take too long, I promise.”

She was speaking to him like one might speak to a silly child. If he hadn’t been in so much pain, he might have even snapped at her for it. “Fine.”

They fell into a long silence, both still struggling to catch their breaths. Sansa was organizing the supplies while Willas attempted to think about anything other than how cold it was, and his knee, and his head, and his thirst, and the fact that he was apparently absolutely fucking useless after all. _Petyr Baelish is probably sitting in his office cursing me to all the seven hells at this very moment for dragging his tribute down._

“I killed someone.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but Willas jumped as if it had been a shout. “What did you say?”

“I killed someone. That—that wound, where I struck him, I mean, there’s no way it didn’t kill him. Who was it? I know it was a boy, but—but there was so much smoke. I couldn’t make out the face. Who was it?”

“Sansa,” he said softly, “It’s best not to think about it.”

“Just tell me who it was.”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see his face. Like you said, all the smoke.”

“Liar,” she sighed, but she didn’t ask again. “Devan Seaworth lost his leg, you know.”

“Who? What?”

He noticed her hands begin to tremble. “The male tribute from the Storm District, Devan Seaworth. He—he was Serra’s partner, the girl who threw herself off the platform. When I was trying to find you in the smoke, I saw it. Aurane said they’d take something important from us if we lost our partner. Well, he lost his partner and they took his leg, severed it off right at the knee. The blade shot up from the ground and then disappeared just as fast. He—he was flailing, screaming, _begging_ for someone to help him, and I just looked at him and kept running. Last I—I saw,” she paused to take a shaking breath, “Last I saw, R—Ramsay was pulling him toward the Cornucopia. He was screaming so loudly, Willas…”

There weren’t tears in her eyes, but he could hear the ones she was holding back in the way her voice was now quivering. _If the gods are good, the bastard just killed him and put him out of his misery_. “There’s nothing you could have done for him, Sansa. You know that, right?” Without thinking, he draped one his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. It was only afterward he wondered if it was too intimate of a gesture, but she didn’t draw away, only rested her head on his shoulder and sniffed. “If there was any way, any way at all, that you could’ve helped him, you would have, but there wasn’t.”

He felt her nod against his shoulder. “I—I still think Serra was very brave.”

It was a dangerous statement. Willas half expected a ball of fire to come flying out of the darkness at them in retaliation. _Her name was Serra Sunglass._ He thought back on her interview and remembered her glaring at Aurane Waters, refusing to give him anything more than one-word answers while her golden hair glimmered under the spotlights. He wondered if it had been that moment that convinced her, or if she had been planning to say those last words and walk off her platform since they called her name.

Sansa shivered, and he pulled her even closer. The darker it grew, the colder it grew. He wished they could build a fire, just a small one to ease the bitter ache in their hands and feet, but the smoke it would produce would alert every rival tribute to their position. “We ought to sleep together tonight.” When she didn’t answer right away, he quickly added, “For warmth.”

“ _Mm_ ,” she murmured sleepily. “For warmth. In the tree. Safer that way."

It wasn’t easy for either of them to climb the tree, but it was particularly difficult for him. Every time he tried to push up on his right leg, an intense pain would send him crashing back down. But eventually they reached a sturdy branch at what Sansa decided was a safe height. The branch was thick but not thick enough for both of them to rest their heads against the trunk to sleep. “I—I’m not sure how—”

“Rest your back against the trunk,” Sansa instructed, as she pulled out the coil of rope and then secured their backpack to the branch above them. Willas did as she said, even if he didn’t understand how this arrangement was going to work. “Now,” she paused, and he thought he saw her blush through the darkness, “Now, um—now, spread your legs.”

“Excuse me?” Willas nearly shouted, his voice cracking.

“I—I’m going to lay against you, that way we can both rest and—and stay warm, of course,” she explained, “If that’s okay with you.”

Willas nodded, already half hard at the thought of her between his legs. When she eased her body back against him, pushing her bottom against his crotch, he nearly groaned at the contact and frantically tried to think of anything—Ramsay Bolton, the bloody snow, Grandmother naked—to quash his arousal before she could notice it. “I’ll tie our legs down so we don’t fall.”

When she bent forward, it caused her ass to push even harder against him, and he had to bite down on his lip again to keep from shouting out. “No,” he gasped, pulling her back. “No, I—I won’t let you fall, I promise. We’ll be okay like this.”

“But—”

“Trust me, we’ll be fine.”

She looked skeptical but abandoned the task and leaned against him instead, the back of her head landing on his chest. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and to press his cheek to her hair to feel the smoothness of her auburn locks against his skin but made himself refrain.

After a few minutes of silence, she said, “You should put your arms around me... you know, for warmth.”

His stomach flipped. _She only wants you to keep her warm, or she’s playing it up for the cameras. Don’t read into it._ Tentatively, he coiled his arms around her body and covered her gloved hands with his. It struck him just how well they seemed to fit together, like they had been made for this and for each other. He looked down at her, trying to make out her summer blue eyes through the shadows. “You saved my life, you know.”

A tiny smile stretched across her lips. “You would have done the same for me.”

“It won’t happen again, me falling apart like that. I’ll be better. I won’t let any of them harm you,” he declared. He told himself he was just saying it for the cameras, saying it so the Crownlanders might think he was actually someone worth rooting for, but part of him knew that he meant every word. “I’ll protect you.”

Sansa chuckled softly. “My Florian,” she whispered.

It was then he knew that for her this, all of this, was just for the benefit of the cameras. Inside, he felt his heart breaking just a little but plastered a smile on his face, as he moved forward to kiss the top of her head. “My Jonquil,” he whispered back.


	8. Bloody Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I was only doing what I had to do. I had no choice_ , she tried to assure herself. But if that were really the truth, why did she still feel like such a monster?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys don't mind a little angst, because this chapter wound up being full of it. Oops.

It was hard for Robb Stark to be the man he needed to be, the man his brothers needed him to be when his every waking and sleeping moment is spent worrying about his sister. He finally allowed himself a small sigh of relief when he watched her climb the tree with the Tyrell boy. _At least it seems she’ll be safe for one more night._ But knowing that offered him little comfort because even if she survived the first night, there were still many nights to come, and Ramsay Bolton was still breathing.

“It’s something she survived the Cornucopia. That’s usually when the weakest die, and she—she’s still alive.”

Robb turned to Jeyne, who was now hovering behind him, hands gripping the back of the sofa, and offered her a small smile. “Yeah, it’s definitely something. She did well,” he agreed. “Here, sit down,” he added, patting the spot on beside him on. “Did she ever tell you about the daggers?”

Jeyne sat down but as far away from him as she could apparently manage. Instead of watching the television or meeting his eyes, she stared down at her hands. “Um no, she didn’t,” she answered. “It came as quite the shock when she—when she killed that boy.”

Robb’s stomach twisted, as he recalled Sansa’s dagger sticking into Rion Celtigar’s neck. He wasn’t sure if the Tyrell boy could sense it, but Robb could hear the anguish in her voice when she asked him who the boy was. He wanted so badly to reach through the television to hug her at that moment, to assure her that she had no choice.

“Don’t feel bad that she didn’t tell you. I’m not sure she told anyone but me actually. She didn’t want people knowing she wasn’t the perfect little lady.” He chuckled lightly at the memory of Sansa sneaking into his room one night, anxiety written all over her face, to ask if he could ever love a lady who threw daggers. _Mother says I have to learn_ , she had confessed, on the verge of tears, _but I don’t want to hurt anyone, and I told her that’s not what ladies do. What would Harry think if he found out?_ He had called her silly and said there was nothing wrong with being a lady who could defend herself, and if Harry Karstark disagreed then he didn’t deserve her. It was a lucky thing their mother had insisted on the lessons, or he was certain Sansa’s first day in the arena would have gone very differently.

“It’s okay,” Jeyne said. “I mean, I don’t blame her for not telling me; I doubt I would have approved.” She paused, biting the corner of her lip. “Gods, I was so ridiculous.” Robb snorted at that. The noise made Jeyne flinch, but she glanced up at him with a nervous smile. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just remembering that time you and Sansa got into my mother’s makeup when you were, oh, maybe eight or nine. The two of you two pranced around town covered in red lipstick and blush, smiling at every young man you passed.”

Jeyne giggled and blushed a deep shade of red. “Oh, gods, that’s right, I had completely forgotten about that. I wanted to impress Smalljon Umber, and she fancied Cley Cerwyn. I think Sansa even put on one of your mother’s dresses. The skirt was far too long on her; she was tripping over it the entire time. You must have thought us quite the pair of fools.”

Robb shook his head. “A bit, maybe, but I mostly just liked seeing you two happy.”

“You were always a good brother,” Jeyne said. “I think you were Sansa's favorite, though she'd never admit it.”

A smile stretched across Robb’s lips. “We were always close. I had dreams just as big as hers back then. Father told me it was my job to protect her and the boys before he went off to war. But I think she ended up being the one who protected me in the end, kept me from burying my ax in Ramsay Bolton’s skull even when it was the only thing I could think about… And now she’s fighting for her life in the Games. Gods, Jeyne, it should have been me. I really thought it was going to be me.” A tear slipped down his cheek, but he swiftly wiped it away.

“It would have killed her,” Jeyne said softly. “She wouldn’t be able to stand watching you in there. And if she were here now, she’d tell you to smile and stop feeling guilty about it. She’d tell you it’s not your fault; it never was.”

He knew Jeyne was right. If it were allowed, Robb would have sacrificed himself for Sansa in a heartbeat. And it wasn’t him that caused this, any of this; it was the Targaryens and the Boltons and the men and women who turned against his father when he needed them the most. Perhaps it was about time to stop blaming himself for what had befallen his family and start blaming those truly responsible for the Stark downfall. “Thanks, Jeyne,” he sighed, reaching to the side to squeeze her hand.

He noticed Jeyne stare at their locked hands for a moment before abruptly looking back up at the television. “It’s um—it’s quite strange that the Tyrell boy can run. Do you think he was exaggerating his injury?”

Robb had been thinking the same thing since Willas and Sansa had taken off running from the Cornucopia. “That must be it. It’s not unheard of for tributes to pretend they’re weak before the Games begin.”

“Well, it’s a lucky break for Sansa. I—I hope he lives up to what he promised her, that he’d protect her from the rest of them.”

_Judging by his performance so far, it is hell of a lot more likely Sansa will be protecting him,_ he thought. “I hope so too,” he said instead. “He seemed genuine.”

“Yes, he really did, and it’s all very romantic, don’t you think?” Jeyne asked, eyes bright. “He seems like such a lovely boy. He’s exactly Sansa’s type, you know, tall and sweet and romantic, and he called her his Jonquil! Plus she was always a sucker for curls.”

Truthfully, he hated that the Capital had turned his sister into some twisted version of a romantic heroine for their amusement. He also wanted to point out that it was likely the entire relationship was an act Sansa cooked up with the Tyrell boy to gain favor with the audience. But Jeyne smiled so rarely these days that he didn’t want to ruin it for her, and her excitement at least meant Sansa was doing a good job of selling it. “He does seem very kind,” Robb forced himself to say, even though he would’ve preferred the eighteen-year-old Willas Tyrell stay the hell away from his fifteen-year-old little sister.

“It’s a good thing. She should be with someone with a heart like hers,” Jeyne said, grinning at him. "Bran told me he had a dream that Sansa would make it out of the arena safely, and I'm starting to believe he's right."

That grin and the way her doughy brown eyes lit up along with it caused his breath to catch in this throat. Jeyne had always been a pretty girl, but this was the first time Robb had ever thought her beautiful. “Yes, she should. And Bran's dreams have always had a rather uncanny habit of coming true.” _Gods, she really ought to smile more often._

The feeling in his stomach made him consider how precisely he saw this girl, Sansa’s best friend and Arya’s once self-declared archenemy. Did he see her like a third sister? Someone he wanted to protect in the same way he had always wanted to protect Sansa and Arya? The fact that he still had not let go of her hand suggested no.

A loud knock interrupted his thoughts before he could explore that conclusion further. “It’s nearly midnight. Who the hell could that be?” He grudgingly dropped Jeyne’s hand and walked to the door, grabbing a kitchen knife and easing it into his pocket on the way. “Who’s there?” he called, hand on the knob.

Another series of loud knocks and a powerful “Open up if you know what’s good for you, Stark!” answered him. “Don’t answer it, Robb,” Jeyne pleaded from the sofa. “Don’t answer it.”

“Do we need to remind you of the penalty for not opening up for peacekeepers and your Mayor, Stark?” a significantly calmer but infinitely more terrifying voice asked. _Seven hells, what does Roose Bolton want with me?_

“Jeyne, I need to open it. Go hide with my brothers. They can’t see you here."

To his surprise, Jeyne stood up from the sofa and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’m not leaving you alone with them.”

“Jeyne—”

“Robb,” she snapped. “I’m not hiding. Not anymore.” She lifted her chin and gave him a stubborn look that reminded him fleetingly of Arya.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, before pulling the front door open. “What can I help you with, Mayor Bolton?” he asked politely, doing his best to keep his voice even. “It’s awfully late to come calling, isn’t it?”

Roose stepped out of the shadows. When the man’s eerily pale eyes regarded him, he felt a shiver pass through his body. “I’m afraid this couldn’t wait, Stark,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “May I come in?” _No_ , Robb wanted to shout in his face, but he moved dutifully aside, allowing Roose and the peacekeepers to enter his rundown shack of a home. “Ah, Miss Poole, how interesting to find you here,” Roose said, and Robb wished he had insisted she hide in the other room. _If he lays a hand on her, I’ll destroy him. I’ll destroy them all.  
_

“Mayor Bolton, I—I only stopped by to offer my—my condolences to Robb, for his sister. We were friends, you see, Sansa and I, and I did not expect her to survive the first day.” Jeyne’s voice was shaking nearly as violently as her body as she spoke; she apparently did not have the same talent for lying as Sansa.

“I’ll have to see what your parents think of that, Miss Poole,” Roose said, before turning back to Robb. “I doubt they’ll be happy to hear their daughter is hanging around a thief.”

“A thief?” Robb exclaimed. “I’m no thief.”

“No? Are you quite certain of that?”

There was a smile tugging at the edges of Bolton’s lips that made Robb more nervous than he cared to admit. “I haven’t stolen anything, Mayor Bolton. In fact, I have no bloody idea what you’re talking about.”

“Trant here tells me that he saw you leaving the lumberyard with one of the axes the Capital so generously loans to us for our work hidden in your bag,” Roose explained. “Do you deny the accusation?”

“You’re fucking right I deny it,” Robb shouted. “An ax wouldn’t even fit in my bag! He’s a fucking liar.”

“Am I now?” Meryn laughed, a crooked grin on his ugly face. “You might want to rethink that, Stark.”

“I would advise you to calm down and watch your language, Stark. You’re in the presence of a young lady after all.” This time when Bolton spoke, the tug at his lips bloomed into a full, mocking smile that made Robb feel ill. “Search the entire house, boys,” Roose ordered. “Let’s see who’s lying.”

Trant and the other peacekeepers immediately walked off in different directions and started tearing apart his house. Every snapped floorboard and loud bang made him more and more afraid that they would wake the boys up. How the hell was he going to explain this to them? “You’re not going to find—” he began but fell silent when Trant walked out of his bedroom with an ax slung across his shoulder.

“He had it hidden under the bed, Mayor. Who’s the liar now, Stark?”

Robb’s heart was beating so fast he thought he might collapse. “What—what is the—he must have planted it there!” he screamed, fists clenching at his sides. “I never stole anything! I—I—one of _you_ must have planted it—”

Roose silenced him a simple wave of his hand. “I have no time for your inane stories, Stark,” he said so calmly they might have been discussing the weather. “We really ought to lock you up for this egregious crime, but I am not a man without mercy. No, instead of imprisoning you we will simply have you fired from—”

“You can’t fire me!” Robb interrupted, voice cracking. He was tempted to drop to his knees before Bolton and beg, but his pride kept him standing. “How—how am I—? I can barely feed my brothers as it is. If you fire me, I—I’ll have nothing.”

Roose shrugged. “Perhaps you should have thought about that before you stole from the Capital. My word is final, Stark. If you show up to work tomorrow, I will not hesitate to have you thrown in jail for your disobedience.” With that, he nodded to Jeyne and disappeared through the front door. The peacekeepers followed quickly behind him, but Trant took the time to smirk at Robb first.

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” the ugly man laughed before slamming the door behind him.

There were tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. It was over. Without his wages there was simply no way he could keep his family afloat, there was no way he could keep his brothers fed. It was over, and all Robb could do was slide to the floor, bury his head in his hands, and let out a loud sob that shook through his entire body.

He heard the scuffling of feet. Moments later a warm body pressed against his own and a hand ran through his hair, stroking it softly like his mother used to do when he was upset as a boy. He leaned into the touch and sobbed again. “Jeyne,” he choked out, “You really should go. You—you should stay away from me from now on. I’m only going to cause you trouble.”

“No.”

Robb sniffed and looked up at her. “What?”

“No,” she repeated, folding her hands primly in her lap. “You Starks think you have a monopoly on bravery. Well, you don’t. I might not look it, but I can be brave too. I’m going to be brave and I’m going to help you, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

 

* * *

 

A sudden swell of music roused Sansa Stark from sleep. The sky was still dark when she blinked open her eyes, but it was soon lit up with projections of that day’s fallen tributes. When Rion Celtigar’s face flashed above her, she felt her stomach knot. _So that’s the boy I killed._ She never had the chance to speak with Rion before the Games started, but she remembered him telling Aurane about his love of swimming, how the smell of the ocean was his favorite thing in the world. _And he’ll never experience that again because of me, because I took his life._ Tears pricked at her eyes again, but she rubbed them away. She couldn’t waste the little energy she had mourning a boy she never really knew.

Sansa shifted and felt something hard pressed against her backside. She turned to see Willas still sleeping soundly behind her and suddenly realized what it was she must have been feeling. Though inexperienced, Sansa had been able to gather enough information from Jeyne Poole and the other girls in town as well as that one horribly awkward conversation with her mother to understand what happened when a man became aroused. A blush reddened her cheeks and heat pooled low in her belly at the thought. _He must be dreaming of some girl from the Reach District_ , she reasoned, observing his peaceful expression and the small, sleepy smile on his face.  _Or maybe he's dreaming of me?_ That thought made her heart beat faster, and she wondered if it was possible that she could inspire such a bold reaction from sweet, shy Willas Tyrell.

When she shifted again to stretch her tired legs, she felt Willas jolt awake. “Sansa, are—are you all right?”

“Just stretching,” she said. “They showed the fallen tributes. The two from the Ocean District, the boy from the Iron District, and the girl from the Western District fell. Somehow Devan Seaworth is still alive.”

“Do you think—?”

“Ramsay is keeping him alive? Yeah,” she sighed. Every possible reason she could think of for Ramsay keeping Devan around with only one leg made her sick. “He’s a disgusting, vile human being.” Willas mumbled his agreement and continued to fidget behind her. “Are you all right?”

“I, well, I—I just have to pee, is all,” he said, stumbling over his words. _What’s gotten into him?_ “Do you um—mind if—?”

“Of course not.” She slid further down the branch to give him enough room to climb down. “After I helped you to the tree, I made some extra tracks in the snow going in different directions and then followed my old ones back here, so we’d be harder to track. When you—um, find a place to take care of that, keep walking and then follow your first set of tracks back.”

Willas nodded, as he eased himself down to the next branch. “Where did you learn all that?”

“I grew up in the North,” she answered, as if that explained everything. “I wasn’t very fond of hunting, well, actually I absolutely hated it, but Father took me along sometimes anyways and taught us the best way to cover our tracks. We should try to find a stream later to avoid leaving tracks entirely.”

“Good idea,” he said, “But, yeah, speaking of streams…” He plopped to the ground and stumbled clumsily forward, making her giggle. “I won’t be gone long. Don’t uh, don’t—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Willas. I promise.” He grinned up at her and she felt the same heat pool in her stomach again. She couldn’t remember anyone else ever making her feel like that before.

When he disappeared into the shadows, she reached up and took the thermos from their backpack to have a long drink. The tepid water soothed her throat, which the smoke and her own screams from that morning had left itchy and sore. Before long, she had drained the entire thermos. _Shoot, Willas is probably going to be thirsty when he gets back._ She was about to climb down from the tree to refill it when she heard the crunch of snow in the distance. It was coming for a different direction than Willas had walked. _Maybe he’s circling around to throw off any trackers_ , she thought at first, but the sound of a distinctly feminine voice killed that theory.

Absolute panic was her first reaction. Willas was still out there with no idea that at least one but probably two tributes were quickly approaching their position, and there was no way for her to warn him without the others hearing. But she forced herself to take a deep breath and grab one of the daggers from belt around her waist. As long as she was in the tree, and they were on the ground oblivious to her presence, _she_ had the advantage.

The whistling of the wind and the noise of the approaching footsteps made it difficult to hear what the girl was saying, but the closer she got the more Sansa could make out. “It’s fucking sick, that’s what it is,” the female tribute was saying. “Keeping him chained to the Cornucopia in that condition. And gods know what he’s doing to his own partner. It’s fucking sick. What’s he trying to prove? And now that food supply is completely cut off.”

“We could try to take the Cornucopia from them,” a male voice suggested. “Ramsay’s partner isn’t an issue—”

“The fact that he’s allied himself with that asshole from the River District and Valena Toland is though. Those two are strong and so is Ramsay, as sick as he is. We wouldn’t stand a chance against them alone. And I don’t even want to think about what he’d do to us if we lost. I have a feeling he doesn’t believe in quick deaths.”

_Maybe I could convince them to team up with us against Ramsay? If I could convince them to work with us long enough, they wouldn’t have to die. I could save them._ Finally the pair came into view, and Sansa recognized them as Myranda Royce of the Vale District and Robbet Magnar of the Ice District. _Now how the hell do I approach them without getting myself killed in the process?_

The snap of a twig interrupted her thoughts and the pair’s conversation. “What the hell was that?” Myranda whispered. “Wait, Rob, do you see—?”

Robbet had an arrow drawn before Myranda could finish the question. _Oh, gods, it’s probably Willas._ Sansa shot forward, tightening her grip on her dagger and winding up her arm. She didn’t want to hurt them, but she couldn’t allow them to take Willas away from her. When Robbet drew the arrow back further, Sansa could have sworn the dagger left her hand on its own accord.

The blade landed in the boy’s neck, and he instantly lost his grip on the bow. With little more than a gasp, he fell to the ground, clutching at his throat. “Rob, what—? Shit, shit, _shit_!” Myranda shouted when she realized what had happened. “Rob, Rob, you’re okay. Oh, gods, you’re okay.” Myranda tugged the dagger from his neck and covered the bloody wound with her hands. “Rob, you can’t die! Rob, _please_.”

Myranda’s distress left Sansa frozen in place. Though she had the second dagger already positioned to strike, she couldn’t move to actually throw it. “Just end it!” Myranda roared, looking up at the trees around her. “Before they take my fucking leg too, just end it!” Sansa’s fingers twitched, but the dagger remained firmly in her hand.

A moment later, she heard Robbet cough one last time and watched on in horror as Myranda’s snowsuit melted from her body and pooled around her feet in the snow, leaving her clad in only her underwear. Already the Vale girl was shivering violently, and Sansa knew she couldn’t last long in this cold without the suit, even if they had a blanket in their backpack. She looked down to see Robbet’s snowsuit had disappeared as well, so Myranda couldn’t even take his. “Where the fuck are you?” Myranda shouted, spinning about wildly, searching for the attacker, for _her_. “Just end it already!”

Sansa prepared to throw the dagger, but when Myranda’s eyes suddenly locked on hers and regarded her with a passionate, unadulterated loathing that knocked the breath out of her, her arm froze again. No one had ever looked at her like that before, not even Arya during the worst of their fights. “The fucking damsel in distress, huh? That was quite an act you put on. But maybe it wasn’t such an act after all,” Myranda called up at her, as she wrenched the bow from Robbet’s hands. “Can’t move, can you? Too afraid of having more blood on your pretty little hands? That will work out just fine for me, little girl,” she continued, drawing an arrow, “Because that snowsuit of yours looks like it would fit me just perfectly.”

_Just throw the dagger, just throw it_ , she pleaded with herself, but Myranda was looking straight at her, and she felt paralyzed under the force of that stare. Even the _whish_ of the arrow being released wasn’t enough to snap her out of it. The arrow slashed by her calf, taking part of her snowsuit and a chunk of her flesh with it before ultimately landing in the tree trunk. Sansa gasped at the pain now shooting up at her leg. The wound was shock enough to send her scrambling higher up the tree.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Myranda lining up another arrow, as she continued to mock Sansa ruthlessly. “You can’t run away from me, little girl! Get back here, you fucking coward! You don’t think I’ll climb up there after you and rip your pretty little heart right out!”

Sansa was so focused on not listening to Myranda’s words, on just climbing higher and higher up the tree away from her, that she didn’t notice a second person enter the clearing. A sudden shriek halted her progress, and she looked down to see Willas standing over Myranda’s fallen body, his sword sticking out from her back.

“Sansa! Sansa, please tell me you’re okay!”

The sound of his voice soothed her, frantic as it was, and she was finally able to take a real breath. “I—I’m fine, my—my sleeve got caught,” she lied, not wanting him to know what had really just happened, not wanting him to know how much of a coward she apparently was. “Stay there! I’ll climb down to you.”

When she hit the ground, Willas lunged forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Oh thank the gods you’re alive,” he sighed into her hair, as he rubbed small circles into her back. “I heard her yelling and then I saw her shoot the arrow, and I—I thought she had killed you. There was blood.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, face pressed against his heaving chest. “It’s a small wound. The arrow didn’t stick.” All she wanted to do was collapse and weep over what she had just done. She wanted to curl up into a ball and let Willas continue to rub her back. But the cameras were still watching them, always watching them, and she couldn’t afford to let them see any more of her weakness. _Make him your Florian, Sansa. Make the Capital love him. Use this awful situation to your advantage, that’s what Petyr would want you to do._ “You saved me, Willas,” she said, a forged dreamy tone to her voice that sounded real enough to her own ears. She pulled away slightly to press a kiss to the dimple of his right cheek. “You saved me.”

For a moment he looked pained, but eventually he smiled down at her. “I’ll always save you, Sansa,” he said, and she thought he almost sounded genuine. “Should we—should we look through their bag then?”

The thought of looting Myranda and Robbet’s dead bodies sickened her, but it would be foolish for them to leave without doing so. “Yeah, I guess we probably should.”

They dumped out the contents of the pair’s backpack and transferred a bag of nuts and dried fruit, a flint, and another coil of rope into their bag. Sansa also pulled out a blanket that had been pressed into the bottom of their pack. “We could definitely use that,” Willas said. “I thought I’d get used to the weather, but it only seems to be getting colder.”

_We’ll need it if there’s a storm._ She pressed the scratchy, thick fabric of the blanket between her fingers and then looked back down at Robbet and Myranda’s lifeless bodies. Suddenly the thought of their families having to see the corpses of their children flashed across the television in nothing but their underwear was too much for her to stand. Before she could allow Petyr’s voice in the back of mind to talk her out of it, she threw the pair’s weapons to the side and then draped the blanket over their bodies.

“Sansa?”

She brushed a couple of loose strands of Myranda’s hair back away from her face. “I—I don’t want their families to have to see them like that.”

Willas grasped her hand and gently tugged her back up. “You have a good heart, Sansa Stark.”

She wanted to believe that, but all she could see was the blood violent red against the white snow and all she could think was, _this is my fault, this is my fault because I could have saved them_. “We need to go,” she said, tearing her eyes away from the bodies. “We need to go now. No doubt someone heard us with all the shouting she was doing.”

“Are you okay, Sansa?”

_No_. “I’m fine, Willas, but we _need_ to go.”

They walked for what felt like hours in complete silence, going off in different directions and following their footprints back to their original path every now and then to throw off anyone who might be following them. The method made the journey feel twice as long and Sansa’s leg was throbbing the entire time, but they were eventually rewarded with a small, running stream that hadn’t frozen over in the cold. “Hopefully these boots are thick,” she said, as they approached it. “Walking through this for a while will make our trail more difficult to follow.”

When Willas didn’t answer, she turned to find him down on his knees in front of the stream. He had taken off his gloves and was furiously trying to wash the blood off of them. “Willas? What are you doing?”

“I just can’t look at it anymore,” he said. “I can’t look at it knowing it’s her blood.”

Sansa’s chest felt tight, as she kneeled down beside him. “Here, let me, you’ll freeze your hands off,” she said, gently taking the gloves from him. “Remember what you told me in the tree? That I had no choice? Well, the same goes for you, Willas. You saved my life. You did what you had to do.”

The sun was rising higher in the sky, making it easier to see the red streaks flowing through the clear water. The sight made her want to retch, but she did her best to stay collected in front of Willas, who looked as upset as she felt. The cameras were still watching, and she couldn’t let them see her fall apart again. When the gloves were finally clean, she wiped them against her suit and handed them back. “You understand that, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he sighed. “Let’s just keep moving. It’s easier not to think about it if we’re moving. Is your leg all right?”

“It will hold for a while longer.”

They began their march up the stream, falling into silence again. She watched blood drip from her leg, muddying the clearness of the water. Sandor Clegane’s words suddenly came back to her. _Don’t let them ruin you like everything else_ , he had said that night outside her room. _I was only doing what I had to do. I had no choice_ , she tried to assure herself. But if that were really the truth, why did she still feel like such a monster?

 

* * *

 

Theon Greyjoy frowned and shook his head while he watched Sansa Stark give up a perfectly good blanket to cover the bodies of a girl who had just tried to kill her and a boy she had never even spoken to. When Tyrell declared she had a _good heart_ after the idiotic act instead of snapping some sense into her, he was overcome by the urge to reach through the screen and smack them both. “Your girl doesn’t have it in her, Baelish,” he laughed bitterly. “Those faces are going to haunt her forever. Look at the way she keeps grimacing at the blood on the snow. I think you’ve made a grave error, my friend.”

“I’m not your friend, Greyjoy,” Petyr said, his gray-green eyes still fixed on the television screen, on Sansa Stark. “A little hesitation in killing fellow tributes will only make it more likely the districts will rally behind her when we make our move. Plus she gave the viewers a reason to believe Tyrell isn’t completely useless.”

“You know she didn’t do that on purpose. You saw the panic in her eyes just as well as I did. She froze up and almost got herself killed.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Petyr said, waving his hand dismissively at Theon, as if he had no idea what he was talking about. “All that matters is she came out on top in the end, a little chaos in between never hurt anyone.”

“Is that how you like to work, Baelish? In chaos?”

“I _specialize_ in chaos, Greyjoy.”

Theon shrugged and looked back at the screen. Aurane Waters appeared with his famous, exaggerated grin plastered to his face. “Wow, that was a close call for Miss Stark of the Northern District! Thankfully, her dashing partner Willas Tyrell of the Reach District showed up just in time to save her!”

“ _Dashing_. Do they hear themselves?” Petyr sneered, rolling his eyes. “Yes, he’s quite the _dashing_ cripple, isn’t he?”

“Not much of a cripple anymore thanks to you. And Sansa does seem fond of him. All it takes is a smile, and she blushes red as a tomato.”

Petyr scowled. “She’s _acting_ , and acting well apparently, if you’re falling for it.”

_People can’t fake blushes_ , Theon wanted to snap back, but he learned along time ago it was easier to just say what Petyr wanted to hear or say nothing at all. Every time he mentioned Willas Tyrell or Aurane Waters declared what a lovely young couple they were, Petyr’s lips would purse into a thin, hard line. Sometimes he would even outright glower at the television, which was so unlike the ever-charming, unflappable man Theon had come to know. He wondered if Petyr was jealous of the dashing cripple. The girl _was_ the spitting image of her late mother, a woman Theon knew Petyr had once cared for enough to ask her to leave her husband and marry him instead. It made Theon anxious. Sansa Stark should have been nothing more to him than a useful piece in a much larger puzzle.

The sight of Robb Stark’s face flashing across the screen cut off Theon’s thoughts. The Capital seemed to love showing him as a not-so-subtle reminder to the viewers that this sweet, romantic girl they all loved was really the daughter of a traitor. Even if Sansa could hide behind wide, innocent eyes and bashful smiles, there was no hiding the scar spelling _traitor_ carved on her brother’s face.

The scar was hideous, but Robb Stark wasn’t. The eldest child of Ned Stark and Cat Tully had the same stunning watery blue eyes and auburn hair as his sister. Both Starks had sharp features but while Sansa’s jutting cheekbones made her look lovely, Robb’s made him look fierce, _strong_. When he stood tall and proud in front of the Capital cameras, Theon saw a leader, a man who could inspire rebellion just like his father had years ago. Not for the first time Theon questioned Petyr’s choice to use the girl instead.

“What do you plan on doing about her family?” he asked, unable to tear his eyes away from Robb Stark. “Once you break her out of the arena, they’ll go after her family first. She won’t thank you for abandoning them.”

“I have no plans on abandoning them,” Petyr said. “I have a plan for the brothers like I have a plan for everything else. Why do you care?”

Theon shrugged and lied, “I don’t care. Just curious.” He wasn’t sure he believed that Petyr had a plan for Robb Stark and the younger brothers. Even if Petyr hadn’t confirmed his feelings for the Stark girl, Theon suspected he would rather have the girl increasingly isolated until _he_ was the only one she could depend on.

“Do you think she’s turning out to be anything like her mother?” Theon asked despite knowing bringing up Catelyn Tully was probably a terrible idea. “Aurane hardly mentions the fact they're related.”

Petyr didn’t answer right away, just kept on watching Robb Stark’s interview like Theon hadn’t spoken. “She’ll grow into it,” he finally answered. “She just needs time.” Abruptly, he shook his head and muted the television. “They’ll be needing blankets soon. I have the money lined up for it, but Benjen Stark won’t trust me if I’m the one who goes to him with it, not to mention it wouldn’t do for Varys to see me anywhere near him. I’m going to need you to play the middleman.”

Theon fought the urge to roll his eyes. Benjen Stark was a dull fellow who he had caught glaring at him more than once, most likely over the rumors he was being whored out by the Capital. _The bastard looks at me like I had a choice in the matter._ “Fine,” he gritted out. “Though I can’t promise he’ll react to me much better.”

“You’ll do fine, Greyjoy. The cold bastard will be friendly enough once you reveal you’re there to help his niece.”

“Fine. Until tomorrow then,” Theon said, preparing to leave, but Petyr caught his wrist before he could move toward the door.

“The first person you killed,” Petyr began softly, eyes focused on the wall instead of Theon. “A pretty girl, if I remember correctly. Yes, a very pretty girl with the loveliest honey brown eyes. Though her eyes weren’t so lovely after you snapped her neck, were they? What was her name again?”

Theon could barely hear him over the rush of blood in his ears and the sound of his own heavy, uneven breaths. It was a memory he had forced himself to block out because it had threatened to haunt him, to consume him after he left the arena. “Willow Ryger,” he murmured. “Her name was Willow Ryger.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” Petyr said, releasing his wrist. “Perhaps you shouldn’t judge the Stark girl so harshly. She’ll get used to it eventually, just like you did.”

Theon fled the room without a response. Once he reached the end of the hallway, far enough away that he was sure Petyr wouldn’t stumble upon him, he leant against the wall and tried to force himself to take a deep breath, tried to force himself to stop seeing Willow Ryger’s brown eyes and to stop hearing her final scream. _She’ll get used to it, just like you did._ Even if the fate of this war _did_ rest on Sansa Stark’s delicate shoulders, he found himself hoping Petyr was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you probably noticed I added a Robb/Jeyne tag. I know it's a weird ship and I wasn't originally planning on including it, but as I was writing the characters just kept calling to each other, and who am I to deny them?
> 
> Also, I finally finished a complete outline for this fic. It looks like it's going to be about 37 chapters, with the last one being an epilogue of sorts. Thanks for reading!


	9. Target Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had wanted to fight this war for so long, but the realization it was finally here filled him with nothing but dread.

Mance Rayder, the President of the Resistance, was neither handsome nor unsightly, neither tall nor short, neither lanky nor bulky. His light brown eyes were warm but not particularly notable either, and his scruffy, dark brown hair was much the same. Aside from a couple of scars that littered his aging face, he was a spectacularly _normal_ looking man.

When Mance was elected by popular vote, some complained they should have chosen a president who cut a more impressive figure, one just as beautiful and terrifying as the Targaryens. Jon Stark thought those people were idiots. The Resistance was formed to bring change to Westeros. It was formed to give the people of the districts, from the wealthiest merchants to the poorest street rats, a chance to change their lives without the Capital constantly pushing them back down. Though the fact that Mance Rayder was brilliant and inspiring and a seasoned warrior were the most important reasons for electing him, Jon thought President Rayder looking like an everyman, someone even a shy, overlooked child like he once had been could aspire to be, was an added bonus.

President Rayder was pacing by his desk, his crimson cloak trailing behind. It had been nearly half an hour since he had said a word, and Jon was starting to worry Mance had forgotten he was there. “Sir?” Jon ventured quietly. “Mr. President?”

Rayder flinched and stopped in his tracks. “What is it, Stark?"

“We were, uh, talking about the plane, sir.”

“Oh, right, we were, weren’t we?” Mance murmured, “Well, let’s talk about that later. I have other things on my mind.”

 _Obviously_. “All right, sir—”

“Would you quite calling me _sir_?” Mance snapped. “I made you my right hand man because I knew you’d be honest with me no matter what, not so you could sit here and hurl useless courtesies at me.”

Jon almost smiled. They had been friends before the election, but since Mance had risen to power, Jon was never quite sure how he ought to address him. “Mance,” he began, “Have we heard anything more about my sister Sansa? If I don’t give Arya something soon, she’s going to raise hell.”

“More hell than she’s raised already, you mean? She threatened to geld Tormund yesterday, you know.”

“Somehow I think he might have deserved it.”

Mance smirked and nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right there. Anyways, about the other sister, the one kissed by fire… We don’t have the Games footage just yet, but my contact in the Capital tell me she’s still alive and that she’s going to be a hell of a lot more important to the Resistance than we thought.”

“Important in what way?”

Mance answered with a shrug. “I’m not sure yet, but the source insists it’s vital we get her out of that arena alive. Thought you’d like to know that, Stark.”

It was certainly a relief that he and Arya weren’t the only ones determined to take Sansa back from the Capital alive, but for some reason Mance’s words left him with a nervous knot in the pit of his stomach. What exactly did this contact have planned for his sister? “And you’re sure she’s alive? Arya will murder me if I give her the wrong information.” _And I can’t allow myself false hope. False hope can kill._

“When the letter was sent she certainly was,” Mance said. “Apparently she killed two people in the first day.”

Jon felt his jaw fall open. His first thought was that Mance’s source must have mistaken a different girl for his sister. “ _Sansa_? My sister _Sansa Stark_ killed two people? Are you absolutely certain this information is accurate?”

Mance raised an eyebrow and glanced down at a piece of parchment on his desk. “Quite certain,” he said. “My contact is not the type of man to make an error like that. Are you surprised? You and your sister are fierce enough—”

“But Sansa is _different_ ,” Jon interrupted, exasperated and still sure the letter was a mistake. “She never learned to use a weapon like the rest of us, she—”

“If she never learned to use a weapon then it’s rather extraordinary she managed to launch daggers into the necks of two different tributes.”

“Daggers?” Jon exclaimed, standing up from his chair. “Sansa throws daggers?”

“I thought she was your sister, Stark,” Mance grumbled, appearing more than a little annoyed by the increasingly circular nature of the conversation. “Why is that you seem to know nothing about her?”

 _We never very close_ , Jon thought with a stab of regret. Their interests hadn’t matched up much growing up, and she had always seemed to prefer handsome, laughing, gregarious Robb to him. He couldn’t blame her. Together she and Robb made a beautiful pair, a pair that the other children at school loved and admired. They were the kind of people everyone wanted to be able to call his or her friend. Then there was he and Arya, the Starks everyone seemed to forget existed. “I just—I never thought—she—”

“Perhaps she just didn’t want to tell you about the daggers?” Mance suggested, his face softer than it was before. “Anyways, the most important thing is that she’s still alive. If she manages to keep herself alive a while longer then you’ll have plenty of time to get to know her soon enough.”

“You’re right,” Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. He had let it grown much too long, so long that it nearly reached his shoulders. “We need to help her, Mance. I may not know her as well as I thought I did, but I do know her heart. Just because she _can_ throw daggers doesn’t mean she _wants_ to. There are worse things that can happen to someone in the arena than death. I want my sister to leave still whole.”

“That’s a tall order, Stark,” Mance warned, shaking his head. “But we’ll do our best, I promise you that. After we receive the signal from my contact, we’ll invade the Capital in the Crownlander mechanic’s strike plan, posing as Capital peacekeepers. So you better get to work practicing your accent.”

“So I’ll be going on the mission then?”

“Of course you will be. I’m not about to leave my best man behind,” Mance laughed. “We’ll get your sister out of there, Stark.”

 _Gods, I hope so._ “Thank you—”

A knock at the door cut off their conversation. When it creaked open, Jon was surprised to see an old man in a long, black and white robe walk inside the office. “Mr. President,” the man greeted, bowing low. “Am I interrupting something?”

The men and the women of the Order frightened Jon more than he cared to admit. There was something peculiar about the entire lot of them. Though they had been living with the Resistance members for years, as far as he knew, not one had ever reached out to form a relationship with any of them. They preferred to keep to themselves, preferred to talk of nothing but dragons and fire and revenge. He understood their bitterness. It must have been maddening to look around at one’s former homeland day after day and only see the wreck of ashes and bones the Targaryens left in their wake, but Jon didn’t think one could sustain a life built solely on vengeance for very long.

“We were speaking of the invasion plan,” Mance answered. The President was fidgeting with a book on his desk as he spoke, and Jon was grateful to see he wasn’t the only one made nervous by them. “Can I help you with something?”

“Nothing that can’t wait a while longer,” the old man said, with a kindly smile on his lined face. “I will return later. Please, finish your conversation.” And just as quickly as he arrived, he was gone.

“What do you think he wanted?"

“He wants a great many things, I think,” Mance said. “They’re a useful but daunting bunch, eh? I’d like to know which of the rumors about them are true, but that old man almost never gives me a straight answer. Tormund is convinced they killed the second dragon, the one the Targaryens claimed died of the plague that supposedly ravaged this place. Do you think it’s possible? That they killed a dragon?”

“If we didn’t think it was possible to kill a dragon, we wouldn’t have sent Sam into the heart of the Capital,” Jon answered, feeling his chest tighten at the thought of his best friend. It was he who selected Sam for the mission even when everyone else doubted he was capable of such an important task. It was he who threw Sam into the dragon’s pit even when he practically begged Jon not to. It would be his fault if Sam didn’t come back.

“True enough,” Mance agreed. “And the boy will be fine, Stark, so wipe that sullen look of your face. Or actually don’t. While you’re already brooding, I may as well break bit of bad news to you.”

“Bad news?”

“Well, not necessarily bad news, depends on how you react to it. It seems that old man has taken your little hellion of a sister under his wing. They’ve had a couple of meetings in the Order apartments. Apparently, he’s training her for something, but before you ask me what, I have no bloody idea. I just thought you should know. I can talk to the old man and order him to back off if you want me to, though I can’t promise he’d listen.”

Jon frowned, wondering what the old man could be possibly be training Arya to do and, even more importantly, why she wouldn’t tell him about it. “No,” Jon said, even though his heart was screaming at him to tell Mance to keep the men and women in the black and white robes far, far away from his sister. “It’s her decision, not mine.”

“The only service that man ever offers me is assassination,” Mance added, and Jon felt his stomach clench. When he didn’t answer right away, the President placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Talk to her,” he suggested. “I’m sure she had a reason for not telling you.”

 _Because she knows I probably wouldn’t approve of whatever it is._ He worried about Arya constantly, perhaps even more than he worried about the rest of his siblings. He wished she would talk to him about the day she saw their father captured by the Capital, the day she watched the Northern soldiers burned and slaughtered by the dragon before only narrowly escaping with her life to the Wild North. But every time he tried to broach the subject, she’d shut down. As children, she never hesitated to confide in him about how she wanted to learn to use the sword instead of the bow, how she hated dresses and songs, how she always felt like she was walking around in Sansa’s shadow. But now it seemed a wall had been built up between them, and Jon had no idea how to break it down.

“I’ll talk to her,” he sighed, feeling utterly miserable. “But it’s still her decision. She’s a woman grown now, and if this what she wants, who am I to stop her?”

 

* * *

 

Arya Stark liked the feeling of a gun in her hand. She liked the roar of the bullet when she pulled the trigger, but she liked the way her shots always seemed to meet their mark even more. It was better than the arrows because when she watched her bullets land in the vital points of her target, she knew that the enemies they represented would be dead, _dead_ with no chance of recovering and coming back to take any more of her family away from her.

“You know, it’s a bit frightening how accurate you are with that thing.”

Arya felt a smile threatening to bloom on her lips at the sound of his voice, but she forced it away before she turned to face him. Gendry Waters was grinning at her again, as he always seemed to do no matter how many times she informed it made him look like an idiot. “I _need_ to be accurate,” she said. “There’s a war coming, you know.”

“Oh, trust me, I know. Your brother doesn’t let me forget it,” he laughed, walking much too close to her, so close that she could have easily reached out to run her hands over the muscles of his chest like she had done last night in her dreams. “I’ve spent more time with my tools than people for the last month because of it.”

“Good, that stupid plane of yours better be perfect by the time we leave. If my sister dies because it crashes—”

“As sexy as it is when you threaten to murder me,” Gendry interrupted, smirking, “I assure you that my lovely Betha will run like a dream when I’m done with her.”

 _He talks about that plane like its his bloody girlfriend_ , she thought bitterly, before wondering if she was really so ridiculous as to be jealous of a _plane_. This burly mechanic was getting into her head, making her nervous when she should’ve been confident, making her dream of bare chests and strong, callused hands when she should’ve been focused only on guns and vengeance and dead Targaryens.

“I guess we’ll see about that.” She took what she deemed a necessary step away from him to clear her head and breathed deeply before turning and lifting her gun again. She ought to have gone back to her target practice like he wasn’t there, but she found she didn’t want him to leave her just yet. “Fancy a contest, Waters?”

“No thanks, Stark, I prefer to shoot from my plane.”

“Chickening out then? Afraid to lose to a girl?” Arya goaded, as she pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the head of the paper target, and she smiled triumphantly to herself, hoping he was impressed.

When he didn’t respond immediately, she feared she had scared him away with the shot. But a moment later she felt a large, warm body press just slightly against hers, and it was clear she had done the exact opposite. It was his chest she was feeling. It was his wide, powerful chest that was pushing into her shoulder blades, and she suddenly couldn’t breathe. The feeling of his breath against the top of her head was even more distracting. “Wha—what the hell are you doing, Waters?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I too close, Stark?” he chuckled just above her ear, sending an eruption of goose bumps across her skin. “I just wanted to observe how you’re holding that gun of yours, so I don’t make an absolute fool of myself when I accept your challenge.”

“I thought you preferred only to shoot from your plane?” Her voice sounded strained to her own ears, but she hoped he somehow hadn’t noticed.

“I do, but like I told you before, I appreciate a challenge.”

Arya had a feeling he was talking about more than the shooting contest. “Well, no cheating, figure it out on your own,” she snapped, thrusting one of her elbows back into his ribcage. She had meant to make it a painful blow, one that would send him staggering away from her, but it ended up being more of a playful nudge than anything else. _Gods, he better not think I’m flirting with him._

“All right, all right,” he laughed, moving over to the spot next to her. It suddenly felt very cold without his body behind hers. “Six shots then?”

“Six shots,” Arya agreed.

When he lifted his gun and looked up at the target with a determined set to his jaw, Arya felt a flutter in her stomach and worried that this was a terrible idea. She hadn’t accounted for this feeling when she proposed the challenge. It took a shocking amount of willpower to ignore the man next to her and focus on the paper target instead. But it was easier once the target began to twist and transform into a Viserys Targaryen before her eyes. The President’s violet eyes were narrowed, and his lips were curled into a mocking smile, the smile he was wearing when he killed her father and made Robb and Sansa watch. The image sent her blood rushing, and she released the six bullets in quick succession, knowing before she even took the time to look that they had all reached their mark.

Gendry’s target was luckier than hers. One of his shots had missed entirely while the others were scattered across the chest and abdomen, none of them reaching anywhere near the head. She was surprised when she noticed him smiling instead of frowning when he glanced over at hers. “Like I said, scarily accurate with that thing.”

“And you’re scarily inaccurate. I hope you’re better pilot than you are a gunman.”

“I’ll have you know I’m an excellent—”

“Impressive shooting, Miss Stark,” a familiar voice said, cutting off Gendry’s response. “Who were you imagining this time?” The Kindly Man was dressed in his black and white robe today. There was almost a smile on his face when he moved closer to observe her target.

“I wasn’t imagining anyone,” she claimed, despite knowing what his response would inevitably be.

“A lie,” he declared softly. “What did I tell you about lying?"

 _A twitch of your lip, a brief tremor of your chin, an extra blink of the eyes—I see them all, and I see your lies_ , he had warned her during their meeting at the Order apartments, when she tried to convince him she didn’t dream of killing President Viserys Targaryen every night. _And we’ll teach you to do the same_.

Gendry’s eyes were flitting nervously back and forth between them. “Hello, sir,” he began, cautiously extending his hand, “I’m Gendry Waters.”

The Kindly Man stared blankly at him and left Gendry’s hand hanging awkwardly in the air. “Don’t even bother,” Arya grumbled. “He won’t tell you his name anyways. He’ll just claim he’s no one and make you feel stupid.”

“I _am_ no one,” the Kindly Man said.

Arya huffed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “See. Told you.”

The exchange only made Gendry look more confused. She wanted to tease him about how stupid he looked when he was thinking hard about something, but she held her tongue. She didn’t want to give the Kindly Man a reason to suspect Gendry was anything more to her than an acquaintance. _You need to leave your attachments behind—vengeance, hatred, and love should have no place in your thoughts, only completing your mission._ Letting go of her vengeance and hatred would be impossible enough without thoughts of Gendry and his stupid blue eyes and giant arms also getting in the way.

“Walk with me?” the Kindly Man requested. His eyes locked on hers, now ignoring Gendry’s presence entirely.

“Sure.” Arya brushed past Gendry and followed after the Kindly Man without another word. Part of her felt bad just leaving him behind like that, but it was for the best. If she were going to succeed in her mission, whatever the hell her mission actually was, she would need to leave him behind anyways. When they turned into a deserted hallway, Arya spoke again, “So are you going to tell me who my target is yet?”

The Kindly Man just continued walking. Normally, Arya would have kept on asking— _like a dog with a bone_ , her father used to tease—but the Kindly Man still made her rather nervous. Though neither he nor the young girl he had introduced her to yesterday had yet to say anything specifically about assassination, she was able to read between the lines and discern the kind of _missions_ the Order specialized in. Arya didn’t care, as long as the person they wanted her to kill was Viserys Targaryen or anyone who supported his tyranny.

“ _Who_ the target is doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he or she is your target,” the Kindly Man finally answered.

 _Of course it matters who the target is_ , Arya wanted to argue. She almost did give voice to the words but fell silent when she saw Jon barreling down the hall toward her.

“Arya!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Jon Stark,” the Kindly Man said, bowing his head slightly. “I’m afraid I have been monopolizing your sister’s time. What I wished to speak with her about can certainly wait until our appointment tonight.” He turned back to Arya. “I will see you at our usual time.” When Arya nodded, he bowed his head to Jon again and left.

“What _exactly_ has that man been teaching you?” Jon demanded the moment the Kindly Man seemed to be out of earshot, but Arya knew he could still hear them. “Mance—I mean, the President has told me about this group and—”

“It’s nothing, Jon,” she said, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. “He’s just training me to be a better soldier, for the invasion.” It might have only been a half-truth, but it was certainly not a lie. The Kindly Man and his strange assistant she had taken to calling the Waif in her head had already taught her a number of skills that would make her a better fighter—how to detect subtle movements in the enemy, how to mix and use certain poisons, and how to move about as quietly as a shadow.

The answer seemed to do little to ease her brother’s worry. His dark brows were still furrowed and the corners of his lips were turned down in a frown. “Arya, you know you can tell me anything, right? There is nothing you could say that would make you me love you less. There’s no one in the world I love more than you, and that’s not going to change.”

The words made her chest feel tight, and she feared she might actually cry. She truly wanted to believe that, but Jon was more like their father and Sansa than he realized. He was _good_. He would be willing to forgive where Arya knew she never could, and she was sure a prayer like hers had never crossed his lips. “Jon, I love you too, I just—”

“You just can’t trust me?”

“ _No_ ,” Arya snapped. “There’s no one I trust more than you, I—I just need to do this on my own. I need to find a place in this war on my own.”

Jon sighed and began to rub his temples. “Does this—does this have anything to do with what you saw when—when you saw them take Father?”

The sounds started to fill her ears again—the roars of the dragon, the screams of the Northern soldiers when the flames overtook them, and her father’s shouts to run, run, run, Arya, _run_! She could smell it all again somehow. The stink of burning flesh and the black ashes that rained down from the sky like some ungodly rain filled her nose until she thought she might retch. Her legs were tight, and she realized she was balancing on the balls of her feet, preparing to run again, to run and leave her father and the dying soldiers behind. She moved to take off, but two strong arms wrapped around her body.

“Arya? Gods, Arya, are you okay? What’s happening?”

That was Jon’s voice, but Jon wasn’t there that day. That meant she wasn’t there either. Arya wrenched herself out of her brother’s arms, as the world slowly came back into focus. She leaned against one of the cement walls in order to catch her breath.

“Arya, what the hell just happened?”

“Nothing,” she choked out, rubbing her bleary eyes. “I just—Jon, I can’t talk about it. I can’t think about it all yet. Please don’t make me.”

There were tears in Jon’s eyes. He moved forward like he wanted to hold her again but hesitated. “I wouldn’t make you do anything, Arya, but when—when you’re ready, you’ll come to me, right? You’ll let me help?”

He looked so anxious and afraid for her in that moment that she could feel her heart breaking. The last person in the world she wanted to make feel that way was Jon, the brother she loved the fiercest. “Of course I will, Jon,” she said, gripping his hand. “I just—I still need some time, that’s all. I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine. Just trust me.”

She was thankful when Jon only nodded in response. She couldn’t allow that day to cloud her thoughts, or the Kindly Man would know, he would know, and he would take away the chance for her to finally have her revenge.

"Sansa is alive," Jon said suddenly. "That's why I was looking for you. She's still alive. She survived the first day."

The news should have gladdened her. It should have made her feel a little a bit lighter. But she couldn't help thinking there will still many nights left for her sister to survive. "We leave soon, right? For the Capital? We leave soon?"

"As soon as we receive the signal."

 

* * *

 

Gendry Waters was starving by the time he finally made it to the cafeteria. Every adjustment he had to make to Betha seemed to take twice as long these days with Arya Stark and her fierce gray eyes and her perfect arse always on his bloody mind. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast because what should have taken him only a morning had taken up nearly an entire day and he had used up his lunch break on a hopeless shooting contest with the Stark girl. _Only to be interrupted by that strange old man._

Missing lunch had been worth it though. Feeling his body pressed against hers, even if it was only for a moment, was worth missing an entire week of meals as far as he was concerned. There was something so incredibly _real_ about Arya Stark. He realized that’s what it must be about her that seems to have him so captivated. Growing up in the Capital everyone had been so fake, buried under outrageous outfits and false courtesies. The Crownlanders wanted to see their world, their perfect little bubble at the end of continent, as beautiful and without the ugliness that plagued the districts. Instead of aging, they hid behind stretched faces and thick makeup. Instead of saying what they felt, they hid behind the pretty words they had been taught to say since birth. None of them ever called him bastard or soiled or district trash out loud, but he could see it in their eyes, could see it in the way they danced around him with words that sounded nice enough but didn’t really mean a damn thing.

Arya Stark didn’t dance around anything, and he loved it. If she thought he said something stupid, she informed him it was stupid and why. If she didn’t have time to talk with him, she told him she didn’t have time to talk with him and that he should go away without preamble, without useless apologies. There was no powder on her face or strange colors in her hair, and he was so glad for it, because she was beautiful all on her own.

But he was still a Crownlander, and even if she said it didn’t matter, he feared she would reject him for it. But there _had_ been a light blush on her cheek when he whispered in her ear that afternoon. That blush and the way she sometimes stumbled over her words when he got too close gave him hope that he wasn’t just wasting his time trying to get her attention.

Once he had shaken the thought from his head and filled his tray with as much food as he could fit on to it, he scanned the cafeteria for someone to sit with. He spotted Jon Stark sitting alone in the far corner with a tray of untouched food and his head buried in his hands. In truth, Jon annoyed him more often than not with his constant pestering and reminders that the plane _had_ to be able to fly when they invaded the Capital (like Gendry couldn’t have worked that one out on his own), but it looked like the older Stark could use a friend.

“What’s got you down?”

Jon looked up and rolled his eyes in a way that told Gendry he probably annoyed the President’s right-hand man just as much. “Nothing,” Jon answered, though the dark circles under his eyes suggested he was lying. “How’s the plane—?”

“I swear to the old gods and the new that if you remind me the bloody plane has to be in order by the end of the week one more time, I’ll reach across this damn table and shove that peanut butter and jelly sandwich down your throat.”

Gendry expected another lecture about the importance of the invasion in response, so it caught him off guard when Jon started laughing instead. It was the first time he had ever actually seen the man smile. “Gods, I must be irritating the hell out of you, huh?” Jon sighed, when his laughter began to subside. “Sorry about that.”

Gendry frowned and wondered if this was some kind of trap. “Hey, mate, it’s all right,” he said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. “You must be under a lot of pressure.”

“You have no bloody idea,” Jon said. “I mean, you sort of do, I guess, seeing as you’re the one building the plane this entire plan rests on, and I’ve been bothering you about it like twice an hour every day for the last month and… Hey, why is it that you look like you get plenty of sleep and I look like hell?”

“You can’t take all that stuff with you when you go to bed. If I went to bed thinking of your lectures every night, I wouldn’t get a minute’s sleep,” Gendry chuckled. “You just have to shut your brain off.”

“You can just shut your brain off? Gods, I envy you,” Jon said, rubbing his eyes and letting out a long yawn. “I don’t I’ve slept properly since I got here. No, before that even. When Ygritte and I first left the Northern District.”

“I bet sleeping next to a pretty redhead every night doesn’t help.”

Jon smirked and nodded. “Ygritte—well, she has her needs,” Jon confessed. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. I wish it was only her keeping me up at night, but I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, and so has she, and… Sorry, this is probably the last thing you want to be listening to right now.”

“No, go ahead, what’s been on your mind?” He wasn’t sure why Jon would want to confide in him of all people, but he looked so miserable when his voice trailed off it seemed wrong not to ask.

“Everything, but especially my sisters. One is fighting for her life at this very moment, and there’s nothing I can bloody do about it, at least not yet. The other one is—well, I feel like there’s nothing I can do there either… You—you’ve been getting close to Arya recently, haven’t you? Ygritte says she’s seen you two together.”

 _I wish we were closer_ , he thought, but he wasn’t about to admit to her older brother. “We’ve been talking a bit, yeah.”

“Good,” Jon said, to Gendry’s surprise. “Does she ever confide in you about anything? About Sansa or our father or—?”

“No,” Gendry said. “Nothing like that. She plays it close to the chest.”

“Yeah, that’s Arya.”

“She seems fine to me though,” Gendry offered, hoping it would help. “I mean, she’s definitely worried about your sister, but she’s tough.”

“She _is_ tough,” Jon agreed. “But she’s just so angry. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m furious about what’s been done to us and our family, about what’s been done to all the people living in the districts, but—but I guess I’m just worried she’ll take it all too far, you know?”

Gendry didn’t know the entire story, but he had heard bits and pieces of what the Targaryens did to the Starks and knew what he had seen on television when he still lived in the Capital. Viserys Targaryen forcing Arya’s brother and sister to watch as their father’s head was cut off was mandatory viewing for the Crownlanders as well as the people in the districts. The looks on Robb and Sansa Stark’s faces were part of the reason he finally decided to leave the Capital behind and seek out the mysterious Resistance in the Wild North. “Is that even possible? For her to take it too far, I mean, after everything they’ve done.”

Jon shrugged and picked up a slice of his sandwich, though he didn’t move to actually take a bite. “That’s true, in a way. But I just—I just don’t want us to _become_ them, you know? Any of us. We can’t just burn the entire place down and start new with all those people living there. Look at you, you’re a Crownlander, and you’re not a bad guy. There must be so many others like you, and I just—I just hate that those people will get hurt in all of this as well. There has to be vengeance _and_ forgiveness for this all to work, I think. And I worry Arya isn’t prepared for the forgiveness part, especially after they took Sansa too.”

What Jon feared suddenly became clear to him, and he knew Jon wasn’t wrong. After fleeing the Capital, he had spent a lot of time hating his fellow Crownlanders, the ones who stayed behind and continued to allow that horrible man to rule them. But not all the Crownlanders who remained were necessarily bad people. Some of them worried they’d be destroyed by the people of districts should a revolution ever succeed. Some of them lived in fear the President would order the deaths of them and their families should they speak out. Some of them simply didn’t understand what the President doing was wrong, because they had been taught their entire lives that was just the way things were done.

“Since when do you two eat together?” He and Jon both jumped at the interruption and looked up to find Arya standing at the end of their table. Judging by her narrowed eyes and the way she was impatiently tapping her foot on the ground, she wasn’t particularly happy about the new arrangement.

“We were just talking about you, little Stark,” Gendry teased. “Join us?”

Arya rolled her eyes, but put down her tray next to his. When she sat, the side of her arm brushed his just slightly. That small touch alone was enough to make his heart beat a little faster, and he knew he was lost. “Why does everyone insist on calling me that? I’m really not that little. And you two better not have been talking about me,” she grumbled, glancing awkwardly between them.

Gendry found himself enjoying the possibility she was uncomfortable with him and her older brother being friends. It gave him hope that maybe she saw him as more than just that stupid mechanic who wouldn’t seem to leave her alone.

But even Arya’s striking gray eyes couldn’t drown out Jon’s words. _I just don’t want us to become them._ Gendry wondered if it was possible for them to take down the Targaryens without stooping to their level along the way. They were so outmatched that holding back to try and spare the innocents amongst the Crownlanders seemed like a mistake, as sick as that thought made him feel. He had wanted to fight this war for so long, but the realization it was finally here filled him with nothing but dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will focus mainly on Sansa and Willas, so if you missed them in this chapter, fear not! I've written a good portion of it already, so I should be able to post it by Sunday.
> 
> Also, Jon Snow = Jon Stark in this because I couldn't really think of a reason for him to have a different last name in this universe. But if it's too weird, let me know and I'll invent one.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. The Impending Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even if he could have done without the bitter cold and constant fear of a rival tribute emerging from the shadows to kill him, Willas thought he could get used to waking up wrapped around Sansa Stark.

The song was playing again, but Sansa Stark couldn’t bear to look up at Myranda and Robbet’s faces. Instead, she stopped walking and turned her attention to Willas. Unlike her, his eyes were focused intently on the sky. He was biting down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood. She could tell by his expression he was just as shaken by what they had done as she was. It made her feel better to know she wasn’t alone in that, to know she wasn’t partnered with someone so callous as to not care about Robbet and Myranda, but she also wished he knew how to hide his emotions better. The Capital was still watching. They were always watching.

“Willas, I think we should stop for a while. My leg is starting to ache.”

Willas flinched at the sound of her voice, as if he had forgotten she was there. “I—I’m sorry, Sansa, what did you say?” He swiped a sleeve across his eyes, but even through the darkness she could make out the tears that had escaped down his cheeks.

“I said I think we should rest for a bit. Our last tracks must be miles back by now and, to be completely honest, my leg feels like it’s on fire.”

His eyes suddenly went very wide, and he reached forward to pull her out of the stream. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he exclaimed, as loudly as either of them would have dared in the arena. “Gods, Sansa, I’ve been so distracted that I completely forgot you were injured. You should have said something!”

The tightness of his jaw made it clear he was angry with her, but _why_ he was angry was beyond her. It’s not like he reminded her of his bad leg when they spent their entire first day in the arena sprinting away from the Cornucopia. “What’s wrong, Willas? It’s barely more than a cut. I just didn’t—”

“But it might be worse than you remember it being,” he interrupted. “Everything happened so fast.” He helped ease her down against a tree trunk and then knelt in front of her. “And what if it gets infected? I should have looked at it hours ago.” He shook his head, as he began to untie and pull off one of her boots.

“What are you doing? Stop that,” she protested, swatting at his hands. “You can’t take my boot off. What if someone comes and we need to run?”

“And what if this wound is worse than you’re making it out be?” he challenged, ignoring her complaint and tossing the boot to the side. With a gentleness that _almost_ dispelled her annoyance with him, he rolled up the leg of her snowsuit to the knee and observed where Myranda’s arrow had torn into her calf.

“Will I be able to keep the leg, doctor?” she mocked.

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips turned up into a small smile. “I think you’ll survive,” he admitted. When he splashed some of the warm water from their canteen over the wound she hissed and tried to pull her leg back, but he still had a firm grasp on her ankle. “It really doesn’t look too bad. It’s a lucky thing she wasn’t a very good shot. But we should still wrap it up with something, and you ought to rest it for a while.”

“No complaints here,” Sansa sighed, leaning her head back against the tree. “I feel like we’ve been walking for a week. Do we have anything to wrap it with?”

Willas frowned and began to rummage through their backpack. When the search apparently yielded no results, he started to remove his own boot.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“We could use one of my socks—”

“No.”

“What? I was going to rinse it in the stream first.”

“Oh, stop, I could care less about that. But do you really think I’m about to let you lose half your toes to frostbite to cover up my _scratch_? Yeah, Willas, that’s not going to happen,” she chuckled, placing her hands over his. The selfless gesture, foolish as it was, proved enough to make her forget she had been aggravated with him only moments ago. _He’s just worried about you_ , she realized, and the idea made her stomach flutter. “Though I do appreciate the thought.”

“Are you sure? You must be cold, and if it hurts—”

“Willas,” she said, moving her hands to frame his face. “I am perfectly fine. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

She noticed his shoulders relax slightly. “I trust you,” he said, with a smile that deepened the dimples in his cheeks. “Here, let’s get this back on you then.” With the same tenderness as before, he rolled the leg of her suit back down and slipped on her boot. “Sorry if I overreacted back there,” he mumbled, as he retied her laces. “I just—I just want to keep you safe.”

This time she believed he truly meant it, that he wanted to keep her safe; there was no faking the panic in his eyes when he remembered she was hurt. She thanked the gods for giving her sweet and broken Willas Tyrell as a partner, because that sentiment was exactly why the prospect of working with a partner had given her so much hope when it was first announced—the possibility there would be another person in the arena trying to keep her safe rather than eliminate her. “It’s fine, Willas. I want to keep you safe too. That’s what partners do.”

“That’s what partners do,” he echoed, shifting to rest against the tree beside her. When she felt the side of his arm press against hers, she moved to lean her head on his shoulder. “We should eat.”

“I’m too tired to eat.”

He chuckled softly. “Yeah, me too.”

She nuzzled closer to him and was glad when he took the cue and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. _The viewers need to see us falling for each other_ , she told herself when she draped her legs over his, so she was practically sitting in his lap, but if she were really honest with herself, she needed to be close to him at that moment. The feel of his arms coiled around her and the soft fall of his breath against the top of her head was the distraction she needed to stop picturing Myranda Royce’s face.

“Do you—do you think what we did will always hurt this much?” he asked. “Can we be okay after that?”

Sansa tensed, knowing it was one of the last conversation they should be having with the Crownlanders watching on, but she couldn’t stomach brushing the question off and making it seem like Willas was alone in his feelings. “My mother killed people in the arena. She never talked about it or let us watch her Games, but I know now she must have killed in order to win. There was a haunted look in her eyes sometimes when she didn’t think any of us were paying attention. But she was happy too. I know she was. I remember how my parents used to sneak kisses when they passed each other in the hallways, the way they looked at each other… They were so in love, and she was happy, and I think someday maybe we’ll be happy too, if we survive this.”

His other arm snaked around her body to tighten his grip. “We _will_ survive this. I promised I’d keep you safe, after all.” He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

The touch of his lips against her skin made her wonder what it would be like if he _really_ kissed her. Imagining his lips against hers, soft and careful, made her feel warm despite the frigid cold of the arena. “How's your knee feeling?”

“Just fine,” he said, his thumb rubbing small circles into her shoulder. “Ready to do even more walking tomorrow.”

“ _Mm_ ,” Sansa managed, as her eyes fluttered shut. In reality, they would probably have to start walking again in a couple of hours rather than being able to wait for the morning. If they weren’t at the edge of the arena when the signal arrived from Petyr, they could ruin the entire plan, but she was too tired to worry about that now.

“Sweet dreams,” she heard him mumble before his soft snores filled the air. Even as he drifted off to sleep, his grip on her didn’t loosen an inch. It gave her hope that this wasn’t all an act for the benefit of the Crownlanders, that maybe he’d even still feel the same way outside of the arena. It was a nice idea—her and Willas sleeping like this somewhere warm and safe and private—and she fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

 

* * *

 

An exceptionally cold gust of wind startled Willas Tyrell awake. For a moment, he thought he was back in the Reach and had somehow fallen asleep outside in the Tyrell rose garden. He almost called out for Garlan when the weight of Sansa against his lap and chest brought him back to the arena. Even if he could have done without the bitter cold and constant fear of a rival tribute emerging from the shadows to kill him, Willas thought he could get used to waking up wrapped around Sansa Stark. The way the early morning light illuminated the streaks of red gold in her hair and the soft rise and fall of her breaths were so lovely and comforting he dreaded having to wake her up, but they had slept for far too long already.

“Sansa,” he whispered, gently shaking her. “Sansa.”

She lifted her head and blinked slowly until her wide, incredible, summer blue eyes were staring up at him. _Gods, it isn’t fair how beautiful she is._ There was a light smattering of freckles over her nose and a small dimple in her chin he had never been close enough to notice before. And her lips, her lips were pink and supple and parted just slightly. His heart was pounding and his entire body was aching to kiss her, to know what those lips would feel like against his.

“Willas? Are you okay?”

Her voice sent him crashing back into reality, and he realized he must have been gaping at her like a lovesick fool. “Fine, I—I just, it’s only, I thought we should start moving again,” he stammered out, wishing he could spring up and put some space between them without making himself look like more of an idiot.

“Oh, gods, is that the sun?” Sansa exclaimed, shooting up from his lap. “Seven hells, how long were we asleep? I don’t care how exhausted we get; we _can’t_ let that happen again. We still haven’t eaten anything. We didn’t even climb the tree. What if someone had found us? Gods, we would be—”

“Sansa, calm down,” he interjected, gripping her shoulders, “We’re okay, and it won’t happen again. I’m sorry—”

“It’s not your fault,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes. “Thanks for waking me up. At least with the extra sleep maybe we’ll be able to make better time anyways.”

“There we go, always looking on the bright side,” he chuckled. He took out their bag of nuts and dried fruit before slipping the backpack over his shoulders. “Here,” he said, lobbing the food to her. “Now, which way were we going?”

Sansa rolled her eyes and popped a dried date in her mouth. “Thank the gods one of us has some sense of direction.”

“I have no idea how you always seem to know where you’re going. All I see is snow and trees and some more snow.”

That earned him a quiet giggle, and she smiled back at him. “My father always said—”

Before he could learn what the late Eddard Stark always said, a piercing scream tore through the air and sent them both flying to the ground for cover. “What the hell was that?” Sansa hissed. “Where did it come from?”

The scream rang out a second time, just as loudly as before but now it seemed to form a word, a word that the girl was shouting over and over again. He strained forward and tried to make out what she, whoever she was, was saying.

“Edric,” Sansa murmured. “She’s screaming _Edric_.”

The moment she said it, Willas could finally make it out himself. “There was an Edric Dayne from the Sand District. Who was he—?”

“Brienne Tarth from the Storm District,” she answered before he could finish the question. “The girl with the sapphire eyes.”

“The girl who was the size of a house, you mean?” Sansa smacked his arm and shot him a glare in response to that. “What? I didn’t mean it like _that_ ; I’m just surprised someone managed to get anywhere near her. She was fast and strong as a bull.”

“We should see what’s going on.”

“What? No, we should wait it out,” he started, but she was already up and walking back toward the stream before he could say more. “Sansa, wait, stop, anyone who succeeded at scaring the crap out of _that_ girl is definitely not someone we want to be messing with.”

“Exactly,” Sansa responded, continuing to march down the stream. “Only two of the strongest tributes could have split Edric and Brienne up, and they’re distracted by her right now, meaning _we_ could take them out. If it’s Bolton…”

 _If it’s Ramsay Bolton, we should run in the other direction as fast as we possibly can._ During their walk the day before, Sansa had told him about the conversation she overheard between Myranda and Robbet. Thinking about what the ugly brute could be doing to the Storm District boy or sweet, little Alysanne Bulwer at this very moment made him sick, and he was not about to let Sansa become his next victim. “Sansa, I really think we should turn back.” Her only response was a dismissive wave that almost made him laugh. _Well, I guess there’s no doubting who the one in charge of this partnership is._

There was another shout for Edric that sounded much louder and much _closer_ this time. He opened his mouth to suggest turning around once more, but Sansa had already drawn a dagger and was moving into the forest. Willas sighed, pulled out his sword, and grudgingly followed after her. If she insisted on investigating the scream, there was no way he was going to let her do so alone.

She only took a few steps before stopping behind a tree and waving frantically for him to join her. Cautiously, he moved behind her and glanced around the tree. What he saw was somehow both horrifying and a relief at the same time—horrifying because Walder Frey and the Sand District girl were pursuing Brienne Tarth closer and closer to their position and a relief because at least they weren’t Ramsay Bolton.

“That’s enough,” Walder hissed, lunging forward and smashing Brienne across the face with the blunt edge of his sword. “It’s over, girl; there’s no way you’re escaping us now.”

“Edric!” Brienne shouted again, but her voice sounded strained and weak. “Edric, please!” she cried, as she tried to get on to her feet only to crash back down. Bile rose up in his throat at the sight of her crawling desperately away from the two tributes.

Though both Walder Frey and the girl from the Sand District had proven their strength during the training sessions prior to the Games, Willas still found it hard to believe anyone had managed to bring Brienne Tarth down. Even covered in blood and bruises with gashes across her right cheek and hip, she was still fighting.

“Edric isn’t coming to rescue you, bitch,” Walder laughed, advancing toward her like a mountain lion about to pounce on its prey. When he stepped in front of her, he kicked a wave of snow into her face and spat. “You better start pleading with us instead of him if you want to live.”

“Just get it over with and kill her already, Frey,” his partner snapped. “No sense in drawing it out any longer.”

“Are you kidding, Val? Where’s the fun in that? No, a few more bashes to the skull and she’ll be pliable enough to bring back to the Cornucopia without much trouble. Ramsay will be pleased; I think he’s starting to grow bored of Seaworth. There’s no fight left in him, but there’s plenty of fight left in this one,” he chuckled before thrusting his foot into Brienne’s face. Willas grimaced when he heard the crunch of her nose breaking. “He’s been wanting another girl. Though I’m not sure this one counts as a girl.”

His partner looked disgusted but eventually nodded. “Fine, whatever, but we need to start moving. With all that racket she was making, who knows who heard.”

“If Dayne was attacked by Hardyng and Bracken then he’s a goner, and no one else is going to respond to this beast’s mating call. Let’s have some fun with her first.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

Frey opened his mouth to answer, but Sansa was pushing Willas away from the tree before he could hear it. When they had taken a few steps back, she stood on her tiptoes and whispered into his ear, “We need to help her.”

“No.” As much as the scene sickened him, there was no way he could risk Sansa getting hurt, not after he swore to protect her. “If we lose, and they catch us, Sansa—I don’t even want to think about what would happen to us.”

“But we have surprise on our side,” she argued. “And we just—we just _can’t_ let them take her back to Ramsay, Willas. That isn’t us, leaving her to die like that, tortured and humiliated and—and who knows what else. That isn’t us, and that isn’t you. You’re a hero. We’re supposed to be heroes, but if we leave her behind that makes us villains.”

 _What in the seven hells is she talking about?_ “We’re not in a song, Sansa. There are no heroes and villains. There’s only us trying to survive. There are bigger things at stake than that girl’s life.” He hoped he hadn’t said too much by alluding to Sansa’s role in the coming revolution with the Capital cameras on them, but he needed to say something to convince her this was simply too big a risk for them to take.

Sansa shoved him away and looked at him like he had just slapped her. “I _know_ life isn’t a song. The past few weeks have made that more than obvious. But just because the world has been cruel to us doesn’t mean we have to be cruel as well. It doesn’t mean we get to turn our backs on what’s right. And helping her is what’s right. Could you live with yourself knowing you abandoned her to a fate worse than death? If you could then you are not the man I thought you were.”

The declaration hit him like a punch to the gut. Cold pragmatism and refusing to help a person in need had never been in his nature, but she seemed to be forgetting she _needed_ to survive this ordeal and go on to fight a much greater fight. “Sansa—”

“Answer the question, Willas.”

 _What I can live with doesn’t matter. You’re the one that matters,_ he wanted to say. Instead he settled with the truth, “No, I probably couldn’t.”

“Then let’s help her and take out Ramsay’s allies in the process.”

“But I also couldn’t live myself if helping that girl backfires and _you_ are the one who ends up dead at theirs or Ramsay’s hands.”

To his shock, Sansa’s lips stretched into a small smile. “Well, look on the bright side, I guess, if I die out there, you probably won’t have much longer to live with yourself anyways… Gods, that sounded really morbid.”

Willas would have laughed if he hadn’t feared the sound giving them away. “That is the darkest bright side I have ever heard in my life.”

“Well, we _are_ in the arena; it’s the best I could do.”

He couldn’t believe they were seriously teasing each other at a time like this. He also couldn’t believe that he was about to give in and help her rescue Brienne Tarth. “All right, I’m going to need you to climb that tree—"

“It’s too far away,” Sansa cut in. “There’s no way I’ll be able to reach them with the daggers from there. But if we move any closer, I’m afraid they’ll hear us.”

“I know. That’s where I come in. I’ll lure them close enough for you to strike. Just climb the tree and wait.”

“But—”

“I’m going to need you to trust me on this one.”

Sansa giggled under her breath. “We really need to stop telling each other that and just start doing it already, don’t we?”

Willas smiled and reached out to tuck a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. “We’d certainly get things done a lot faster.”

“All right then, I trust you. Now let’s get on with it and save her already.” With those parting words, Sansa spun back around and made for the tree. As soon as he saw her safely reach the top, he turned and took off in the other direction. The ease with which he was able to run forward through the snow, maneuvering around stray branches and thick roots, amazed him. Less than a week ago he had been barely able to walk more than a couple steps without the aid of his crutches and now he was _running_. Even if this rescue mission killed him, at least he’d have the feeling of running through the woods, at least he’d have the silky touch of Sansa Stark’s hair still lingering on his fingertips, at least he’d die doing what’s right.

When he reached a spot in front of the three tributes a safe distance away, he started shouting and smashing his sword into the trees around him. Soon enough he heard someone start to walk forward. When Walder Frey suddenly came into view and locked his eyes on Willas, he felt his heart stop for a moment. The boy was a bit shorter than Willas but significantly larger and skilled with a sword from what he remembered of the training sessions. _You’re okay. It will all be okay. Sansa is going to kill him before he gets anywhere near you._

Sure enough a shimmering silver dagger flew down from the trees. But this time, instead of the blade landing in Walder Frey’s neck like it had in Rion’s and Robbet’s, it stuck into his shoulder. The strike seemed to have little effect on him aside from making him angrier. Willas felt his jaw fall open. In his mind, Sansa never missed; he hadn’t even considered what would happen should she not deal a fatal blow.

“Val, the Stark girl is in the trees!” Walder shouted, sprinting forward toward Willas and out of Sansa’s range. “Get her, and I’ll take out the cripple!”

“ _Shit_ ,” Willas muttered, holding out his sword and preparing for Frey’s inevitable blow. The first clash of their swords sent Willas stumbling back under the sheer power behind Frey’s cuts. The River District boy laughed, baring a set of horrid yellow teeth, and struck again, this time knocking Willas to the ground.

“You’re going to die now, cripple,” Walder hissed, as he kicked the sword out his hand. “Trying to play the hero, huh? Or were you just hoping to take me and Valena by surprise? Either way, it didn’t go too well for you, did it?” The boy climbed over him, straddling his waist, and pressed the sharp edge of the sword to Willas’ throat. The smell of Walder Frey’s sour breath assaulted him, as his attacker leaned forward to laugh in his face. “And after I kill you, I’ll take the Stark girl back to Ramsay. I’ll be rewarded for that. He’s been hunting her since we got dropped into this arena. He talks of nothing but how he wants to flay her pretty white skin from her body, how—”

Willas forced himself to stop listening to the threats and start focusing on the dagger sticking out from Walder’s shoulder. If he could just grab the dagger and stab it into Walder’s neck before the boy killed him, he and Sansa might stand a chance of getting out of this alive.

“She’s going to be screaming by the end, cripple,” Walder was saying, as Willas shot up with all the strength he had and reached for the dagger. Frey responded by smashing him back down and pinning his arms down under his knees. “Oh, you stupid son of a bitch,” the boy laughed. “Did you really think—?”

Walder Frey was never able to finish that question because a moment later a rock smacked into the back of his head, sending him flying off Willas’ body with a shout. Willas scrambled back to his feet, expecting to see Sansa, but instead he found a swaying Brienne Tarth standing a few feet away, clutching to a tree to keep herself from falling over.

The Sand District girl was screaming for Walder now. “Frey, I can’t find the girl! She’s almost killed me twice! Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

Frey stood up and reached for his sword again, but when Willas picked up his own and Brienne moved forward, raising herself to her full height, the boy seemed to think better of another attack and retreated toward his partner. Neither he nor Brienne moved a muscle or said a word when Frey disappeared, only continued staring dazedly into the trees. It was the appearance of Sansa that finally snapped them out of it.

“They ran off, but I think they were going to find Ramsay, and,” Sansa paused, glancing between the two of them, “Is everything alright?”

Willas gulped and looked over at Brienne. The Storm District girl was absolutely covered in blood and gashes and bruises. It was miracle she was even standing. “She—she saved my life,” he said. “Frey was about to kill me, and she saved my life.”

All the color drained from Sansa’s face. “That—that was my fault. I can’t believe I missed. He was moving so fast, and I climbed a little too high, and I couldn’t—”

Willas wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Even now, after running for days, she still smelled faintly of lemons and sweet honey. “It’s not your fault, Sansa. We’re okay.”

A loud thud broke them apart, and they turned to see Brienne had fallen to the ground. “Oh, gods,” Sansa mumbled, dropping to her knees next to the girl. “Brienne, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

“Please,” Brienne croaked, shying away from Sansa’s hands. “Just make it quick, please. Don’t let them take me to Ramsay. Just make it quick, _please_.”

“Oh, no, we’re not going to kill you,” Sansa whispered, tentatively running one of her hands through Brienne’s short, straw-colored hair. “We were trying to help you. Do you think you could walk with our help? We need to get out of here before they come back.”

“ _Help_ me?” Brienne’s eyes were wide and filled with tears. Willas could see now why Sansa had referred to her as the girl with the sapphire eyes; as torn up as she was, her eyes still shone. “Why would you want to help me?”

“Because no one deserves what they were about to do to you,” Sansa answered. “We couldn’t let them do that. And now we’re going to get you out of here and clean you up and together we’ll destroy Ramsay. What do you think?”

Brienne started sobbing and clutched the front of Sansa’s snowsuit like she didn’t fully believe she was real. She opened her mouth to answer, but it seemed she couldn’t form any words, so she simply nodded. That was all the confirmation Willas needed. He leaned forward to drape the girl’s arm over his shoulder and haul her up. Sansa took the other side, and they were just barely able to keep her weight supported between them. They made slow progress down the stream until they finally reached the tree he and Sansa had slept under the night before.

The girl with the sapphire eyes was in and out of consciousness, as he and Sansa cleaned the dirt and crusted blood from her wounds with water from the stream. “None of them are too deep,” he said. “I think it’s the bruises that did more damage. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a couple of cracked ribs, and her nose is definitely broken.”

Sansa bit her lip and wiped away the blood trickling down Brienne’s lip. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“I think so, maybe. She’s strong.”

“She saved your life,” Sansa sighed, her chin trembling. “I almost got you killed because I was being stubborn and insisting we help her and then I bloody missed the shot. And now I only have two daggers left, and you almost died, and I missed the shot! How did I miss that shot? Gods, what’s wrong with me?”

“ _Shh,_ don’t cry,” Willas whispered, pulling her trembling body into his. “Even the best shots are bound to miss sometimes. I should have been more prepared for him.”

“I hate this, all of this,” she mumbled into his chest. “I hate knowing I could lose you at any second. I hate it. I hate it, and I want to go home, and I want you to be safe.”

“Hey, hey, we _are_ safe for now,” he said, running what he hoped was a comforting hand up and down her back. “We’re alive, and we saved her, and we’re going to win this thing, so no more crying, all right?”

Sansa sniffed and pulled away from him. “You were very brave back there, you know. Thank you for agreeing to help her.” She placed her hands on his shoulders and stood on her tiptoes. His entire body tensed when he realized she intended to kiss him. His eyes fluttered shut and his heart skipped when her lips touched chastely to the corner of his.

When she pulled away, she was blushing a deep shade of red that clashed wonderfully with her hair. He grabbed one of her hands, meaning to pull her back in for another kiss, a _real_ kiss, but a pained groan from Brienne ruined the moment. Sansa immediately dropped his hand and ran over to her. “Are you all right?”

Brienne flinched when Sansa touched her head but managed a small, shaky smile. “Yes, I—I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble to you both.” There was fear shining in the girl’s blue eyes, as if she expected he and Sansa would turn on her at any moment. “You—you really didn’t need to bring me back with you. Keeping me away from Ramsay was good of you, it really was, and I just don’t—I don’t understand why you’re being so kind to me. No one’s ever been this kind to me.”

He remembered Walder mocking her for her appearance and wondered if she had mocked like that her entire life. Even Aurane Waters had made a jape about her size during her interview that almost reduced the girl to tears. The memory made his stomach twist. He knew plenty about being taunted for something beyond his control. “You saved my life,” he reminded her. “And we saved yours. And now we’re allies.”

“But—but we can’t all survive.”

 _Yes, we can_ , Willas thought, wishing they could tell her about Master Baelish’s plan to break them out of the arena. _If we keep her with us, all three of us can escape this place._

“That’s true, but I don’t think we have much chance of survival with Ramsay, Walder, and Valena allied against us,” Sansa said. “Together, the three of us and maybe your partner if we can find him stand a better chance of taking them down. Speaking of Edric—”

“I don’t know where he is,” Brienne sighed. “We were ambushed by the Hardyng boy and Catelyn Bracken, and I lost him. Those two have traps set up all over the arena. Edric set one of them off and barely avoided having his foot chopped off. They were nearby when it happened, and they heard him call out, and, gods, they were on us in seconds. There were arrows everywhere, and Harry had a sword, and Edric was yelling at me to run, and the next thing I know I'm running headlong into Valena and Frey… They chased me down, and that’s when you two found me.”

“Damn,” Sansa muttered, stomping her foot in the snow. “If Bracken has a bow and arrows then we don't stand a chance.”

“Do you think—?” Brienne began, tears dripping down her bloodied cheeks. “Do you think they killed Edric? He was so kind to me, and I—I shouldn’t have run, but he kept yelling at me to run, and I thought he was right behind me, but he—I guess he wasn’t.”

“No, he must be fine,” Sansa assured her. “You’re injured but still intact as far as I can see. The gamemakers would have taken something from you if Edric were dead. They took Devan’s leg when Serra died, they took Myranda’s snowsuit when Robbet died, but they’ve taken nothing from you yet. Edric must be fine.”

Brienne took a deep breath and nodded. “I swear I’ll help you two, for what you’ve done for me. You can trust me.”

 _We can’t trust anyone_ , he countered silently, but he smiled at her. “We stand a better chance against Harry and Cat and Ramsay’s alliance together rather than apart. We’ll find Edric and we’ll make for the edge.”

“The edge?”

“Yes, that’s where Willas and I were headed,” Sansa explained. “We want to lure Ramsay and his allies away from the Cornucopia. But you need some rest first. Close your eyes for a moment, and we’ll begin again in an hour.” Brienne looked apprehensive about letting her guard down around them again but eventually gave in and shut her eyes. “We should be moving now,” Sansa sighed. “But she won’t make it more than a few steps in that condition.”

“An hour won’t hurt us.”

“We’ve wasted so much more than an hour,” Sansa said. “And, gods, look at what that horrible boy did to your face.” She pressed a gentle finger to the growing welt on his cheek where Walder had struck him with his sword. He winced at the touch. “I wish we had something for it.”

Only moments later, a small package dropped from the air at their feet. Inside, they found a tube of ointment. The foul smell of it nearly made him sick when Sansa applied it to the welt, but the way the pain almost immediately disappeared was worth it. “You should put some on your leg, and Brienne’s injuries.”

Sansa nodded and looked up toward the sky. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you. We won’t let you down.”

A gust of wind tore through his snowsuit and sent his teeth chattering. “I wish they had sent us a blanket as well,” he chuckled. “Does it feel colder to you?”

Sansa’s face dropped, as she looked around and sniffed the air. “We need to find somewhere warmer to stay. I think they’re sending us a storm.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until Benjen Stark finally breathed a sigh of relief that he realized he had been holding his breath. The Tyrell boy had been pinned down under Walder Frey, and Valena Toland was moving so fast between the trees that Sansa couldn’t get a clear shot at her. If the girl from the Storm District hadn’t intervened when she did, Willas Tyrell would be dead, and Sansa probably would have fallen with him.

Her speech to Tyrell about right and wrong reminded him of a lecture Ned had once given him and Lyanna after they pick-pocketed one of their least favorite peacekeepers. _It isn’t fair that he treats us like crap_ , Lyanna had argued. _Sometimes life isn’t fair, but that doesn’t mean we should stop trying to do what’s right_. His niece looked so much like her mother that he hadn’t realized just how much of Ned was in her until that moment.

He prayed her heart wouldn’t get her killed as Ned’s had. _He trusted the wrong person, and then it all went to hell_ , he thought, feeling the familiar fury pooling in his gut. The wisest choice would have been giving Brienne Tarth a merciful death, but he knew neither Sansa nor Tyrell had the stomach for it. All he could hope for was that the girl would feel some loyalty toward them now and would help them in destroying Ramsay Bolton.

“Another close call. You should have told your niece not to go picking fights with tributes stronger than her, Stark.”

Benjen’s fists clenched at the sound of Theon Greyjoy’s voice. When Theon became a mentor last year, there was immediately something Benjen didn’t like about the boy, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the way he was always smiling, smiling at things no one had a right to be smiling about.

“What do you want, Greyjoy?” he snapped.

Theon let out an easy laugh and took a seat next to him. “So hostile. I come in peace, Stark,” he said, holding up his hands. “In fact, I think you’ll want to be a great deal nicer to me after you hear what I have to say.”

“And what’s that?”

“An affluent man in the Capital has taken quite an the interest in your fair niece. He wants to do whatever he can to ensure her victory, and he thinks this should be a step in the right direction.” Theon tossed a large, black bag into Benjen’s lap.

Benjen raised an eyebrow and cautiously unzipped the bag to find the most money he had ever seen at one time stacked neatly inside. “Seven hells,” he breathed. “Seven fucking hells, how much is in here?”

“Enough.”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Benjen hissed, swiftly zipping the bag back up. “Who has this much money to spend on a traitor’s daughter from the Northern District? And why would he go through you instead of directly to me?”

Theon smiled one of the derisive smiles Benjen despised. “He’s one of my clients,” he answered. “He doesn’t want to make his admiration of the traitor’s daughter, as you called her, public just yet, but he would be truly distressed if she were to die in there.”

Benjen knew the kind of _clients_ Theon Greyjoy usually catered to, and he didn’t want any of those people near Ned’s daughter. “And what does he want with Sansa after she wins? Does he want to make her like _you_?”

“You make it sound like a death sentence, Stark.”

“I won’t let that happen to her,” he spat, throwing the money back at Theon. “Take it back, and get out of my face.”

He made to storm away, but Theon yanked him back by the collar of his shirt. Benjen almost threw a punch, but Theon’s voice in his ear stopped him cold. “Worry about all that after she survives, Stark. Don’t be a fucking idiot, and take the money. There’s a storm coming, and your precious niece is going to die in there if you don’t have the credits to send her blankets and food. Now, be a good boy and take the giant bag of free money I just so kindly offered you, force a smile on to your fucking face, and walk away like we just had a pleasant fucking chat, understand?” With that, Theon dropped the bag at Benjen’s feet, offered a sarcastic little bow, and walked away.

Whoever it really came from, Benjen knew the money was tainted. He knew that he ought to leave it behind and find another way, a _better_ way, to get Sansa what she needed to survive in there. But his niece was in danger, and he couldn't let her down.

 

* * *

 

Every minute he has watched Sansa Stark in the arena has made it more and more obvious to Petyr Baelish that she inherited little of her mother’s pragmatism. It wasn’t her choosing to risk her and Tyrell’s lives for a girl she didn’t know that irked him, it was she and the Tyrell boy doing so without a well thought out plan. If Sansa insisted on doing what was _right_ , she could at least do it the right way. But she had survived thanks to that beast of a girl from the Storm District, and the battle wasn’t over yet.

The glimpses of her aunt’s romanticism and her father’s stubborn honor in her had bothered him at first, but the more he considered it, the more he realized it might not be such a bad thing after all. She had been receptive to his lessons as a child, eager to learn and absorbing his every word like a sponge. Once she was out of the arena and back at his side, it wouldn’t be hard for him to teach her how to be great, how to be the woman she was destined to be. And the romantic heart that would still beat underneath the cleverness and expediency he’d instill in her would only make convincing her to love him that much easier.

He didn’t like the way she now looked at the Tyrell boy though. He knew her well enough to tell when she was acting, and as much as he hated to acknowledge it, she was not acting when she pressed a kiss to his lips and blushed red as pomegranate. She was not acting when she called him a brave and looked up at him like he was some great hero from a song. It was no matter though. Petyr had anticipated as much the first time he saw them together, and he had a plan to deal with it. He always had a plan.

“The Games are proving interesting this year, aren’t they? The President is quite pleased with their progress so far. Though I suspect he’s beginning to grow frustrated with the fact the Stark girl is still breathing and has yet to cross paths with Bolton’s bastard.”

“What do you want, Varys?”

“Oh, I just wanted to talk with my dear friend, that’s all,” the eunuch tittered. “Like I said, it’s been an exciting game. Catelyn Bracken’s traps will take down more tributes soon and fashioning her own bow after the Dayne boy snapped her first one was a stroke of genius. Unfortunately, Miss Bracken’s ingenuity, impressive as it is, is no longer enough to keep the President’s attention. The tributes are spread too far apart, and he means to bring them back together again.”

“And how does he intend to do that? I don’t see a fire or a flood doing the trick this time."

“No, no, he thinks a storm is in order.”

As Varys spoke the words, snow began to flutter from the sky and land in Sansa’s magnificent hair. He watched Willas and Sansa huddle closer to each other for warmth and forced himself to remain unperturbed. “A storm. That _will_ be interesting,” Petyr said, as he silently hoped for the first time that Sansa Stark was more Northern than she looked.


	11. Dragon's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I make the plans, Greyjoy. Always be the one with the plan and never be the one that has to get his hands dirty, and you’ll be running the country before long. Well, at least when I’m done with it.”

She was breathing too loudly. It had all gone so well up until then—the subtle misdirection when she asked about the clock on the far wall, the quick swipe of her hand over his drink, the seamless way the poison melted into the wine. But when he turned away from the clock and met her eyes again there was no doubt in her mind he knew instantly. It must be she was breathing too loudly. He said it was her biggest tell.

“Trying to kill me, Miss Stark?” The Kindly Man asked calmly.

She rolled her eyes. “It was just going to make you a little sick. I’m not dumb enough to try to kill _you_.”

“You mean you’re not clever enough."

Arya answered with a scowl. “What gave me away?”

“Your breathing, mostly,” he answered, confirming her suspicions. “Asking about the clock was a smart touch though. You do love to ask questions.”

“Too bad you never answer any of them.”

The Kindly Man smirked. “Well, tonight I _will_ be answering one of your many questions, Miss Stark, but first you must tell me something.”

Arya’s heart began to pound, and she prayed he would finally reveal whom her target would be when she snuck into the Capital. “Anything.”

“When you’re given your assignment and brought to the Capital, you must put aside everything and everyone else. There must be nothing and no one in your life but your target. You can no longer be Arya Stark. You can no longer have her cares, her ambitions, her desires, her hatreds, and her loves. You must be the identity you assume, and you must want nothing but to complete your assignment. Can you do that, Miss Stark?” He looked at her closely from across the table, his dark eyes illuminated by the flames of the fireplace, and she could tell he was searching her features for a lie.

“Yes.” She was sure to keep her answer simple and her face serene and her breathing calm. But she was still nervous he could detect the lie. Even if she was willing to do almost anything to play a part in this war, she knew she would always put Jon and Robb and Sansa and Bran and Rickon and maybe even Gendry first. And she knew even if Viserys Targaryen wasn’t her target, if given the chance, she wouldn’t be able to resist destroying him for what he has done to the Stark family, for killing Mother and Father, for forcing sweet Sansa to kill, for making Robb give up his dreams to support them, for tearing them all apart.

“You lie,” he sighed. She opened her mouth to protest, but the Kindly Man pressed his hand over her mouth before she could speak. “But you have passed every other test I’ve given you, and we are unfortunately out of time.” He took his hand back and pulled a crumpled photograph from the pocket of his robes.

“Is—is that—?”

“Your target?” The Kindly Man placed the photograph face down on the table and slid it toward her. “Yes, it is. Before you look, you must be sure you are ready. And remember, if you choose to look, you commit yourself to the assignment, even if the target is not whom you expected. Do you understand?”

 _It can’t be the President then._ The warning made her concerned she wouldn’t like whom she saw in that photograph, but the Order was on their side of this war and if they wanted this person dead then so did she. “I understand.”

The Kindly Man nodded and slowly removed his hand from the photograph. “Then look and accept your assignment.”

Though her heart was racing, Arya forced herself to appear calm, as she reached forward and flipped over the photograph. When her eyes landed on the target’s face, a face she had seen a thousand times but had never really thought about before, she felt her stomach sink like a stone. “This must be a mistake.”

“I assure you it’s not.”

“I—I don’t—”

“You said you understood, Miss Stark. Was that also a lie?”

Arya tore her eyes away from the familiar face and shoved the photograph into the pocket of her trousers. “No,” she snapped. “I said I understood, and I understand, I just didn’t—”

“The President will also die,” the Kindly Man interrupted calmly. “The entire lot of them will die. You need not worry about that. But this assignment is just as important, if not more so. Before we release you into the Capital, we must know you understand that.”

“I told you that I understand, all right?” she all but shouted, before shooting up from the table. She desperately wanted to put some distance between them, to hide in some dark room while she processed this news, so the Kindly Man wouldn’t see the doubt and panic written all over her face. “Can I go now?”

“No.”

“What?”

“No,” the Kindly Man repeated. “I am not quite finished yet. You should know that when you enter the Capital, you will not be immediately eliminating your target. We have taught you the Capital dialect and its customs so you will be able to insert yourself in your target’s life. You will become your target’s closest friend, your target’s fiercest ally and most trusted advisor. And when the forces of the Resistance march upon the walls of the Capital to burn it down, you will kill your target and do your part to secure our victory. This is the assignment you have accepted by taking that picture, and if you leave this room with it still in your pocket, there is no turning back.”

 _Or what?_ As Arya considered her mission, she found herself remembering how Sansa used to squeal and gush whenever the target’s face flashed across the television screen. Even Arya had found it difficult not to share in her sister’s admiration. But this was a war, a war that threatened to destroy everything she loved, and tough decisions needed to be made. “I have no intention of turning back.” With that promise, she marched out of the room without looking back.

As she practically sprinted to her room, she realized she should have asked more questions. She should have asked _why_ her target needed to die, _when_ her target needed to die, and _how_ they expected Arya to accomplish it. But even if she had asked the questions, she suspected the Kindly Man would have offered her no answers.

 _What would Jon think about this? Or Sansa? Are you that much of a monster?_ The target’s face, lovely and sad, flashed across her mind, and that’s exactly what she felt like, a monster. But maybe Sansa would understand her choice now. After all, two children of the Districts had already died at her sister’s hands—the footage smuggled into the Resistance compound the day before couldn’t lie.

“Arya? Arya, are you all right?”

She gasped and spun around to find Gendry jogging toward her. His eyebrows were furrowed and mouth tight with concern. “Of course I am,” she spat back, as if he had just accused her of something shameful. “Why would you even ask that?”

“I don’t know, you just looked kind of—I don’t know, kind of dazed, I guess.”

She shoved her hands into her pockets and regretted it instantly when she felt the crumpled up photograph push against her palm. Guilt flared up in her gut, but she forced herself to ignore the feeling. “Well, you’re wrong, because I’m fine.” Gendry looked like he was going to disagree with her, so she quickly added, “Up for another shooting match?”

Gendry only frowned. “I’d rather talk, to be honest.”

Arya’s fists clenched in her pockets. The genuine concern in his eyes was making her stomach twist and flip in the most inconvenient ways. “Talk about what? I was about to go get some sleep, and—”

“It must be hard, to be away from your family for so long. But Jon says that your sister has been doing well so far, and—”

“Gendry,” Arya interjected, much louder than she intended, “My sister is the absolute last thing I want to talk about right now, okay?"

Gendry flinched, and she felt absurdly guilty for shouting at him. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I even brought it up. I just—you’ve looked so upset lately, especially since the footage arrived, and I just wanted you to know that if you ever need to talk about any of it, well, you can trust me. That’s all.”

“People used to tell my father that all the time.” The bitter retort was unfair of her, and she wished she could take it back. When she observed Gendry’s face like the Kindly Man had taught her to do, she knew he wasn’t lying to her, she knew she _could_ trust him, unlike the people who had let down her father when he needed them the most.

Arya expected him to argue with her, to assure her he was trustworthy, but Gendry had defied her expectations before. Instead of doing either of those things, he moved forward and wrapped his strong arms around her, pulling her into his chest. It was a hug. Arya couldn’t remember the last time she let someone other than Jon hug her, but she found herself quickly melting into his arms. When she left for the Capital and completed her mission, the surprisingly kind, stubborn mechanic would probably never want to speak with her again, but at least she’d always have this moment.

 

* * *

 

Theon eased into the seat beside Benjen Stark and watched on silently, as Sansa Stark and Willas Tyrell pulled the injured, Storm District girl toward a nearby cave. The snow was falling more heavily now, so heavily that he could barely make out the tributes anymore.

“They’re going to need blankets,” Theon finally spoke. “Good thing I just gave you a big bag full of money, huh?”

“Who is it?” Benjen hissed, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the Crownlander crowd around them. “Who’s sponsoring her, Greyjoy? I’m afraid to use the money until I know.”

Theon shrugged languidly, enjoying how much his indifference annoyed the prickly Stark. “It could be any number of people,” he answered. “Your little niece has a kind heart. It’s proving a surprisingly popular trait with the Crownlanders. A bit ironic, isn’t it? That they so value a trait none of them seem to have.”

Stark glared at him. “Just tell me, you little shit.”

“No,” Theon sighed, with a smile, “No, I don’t think I will. But you better use that money, and soon. I don’t care how Northern the girl is, another few hours in that storm, and you’ll be left with an ice cube instead of a niece.”

Benjen grumbled something under his breath and turned back to the television. Theon tried to remain impassive, but, in truth, he was just as nervous as Benjen Stark was albeit for very different reasons. The storm engineered by the gamemakers had stopped the Stark girl’s journey to the edge of the arena entirely. It would force her to remain in the small cave she and her companions had stumbled upon. If the Resistance invaded the Capital before they decided to end the storm, their carefully crafted plan could be ruined.

 _Baelish better know how to fix this mess._ Theon pushed himself up from the chair and walked toward Baelish’s office without another word to Benjen. It was a long walk from where he was to the Master of the Games' office, and it took him nearly an hour to complete it.

To his surprise, when he finally arrived, he found Master Baelish’s office door unlocked. It came as an even greater surprise to open the door and find the man smiling. “Why do you look so happy?” Theon sneered, locking the door behind him. “The Stark girl is stuck in a freak storm, and the Resistance is set to arrive any day now.”

Baelish smirked and nodded toward the television on the far wall. “Stark finally broke down and used my money to send his niece some blankets. In even more shocking news, he actually managed to time the gift perfectly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, you’ll see. They’ll be replaying it all bloody day.”

Theon craned his neck to see the screen, but it was now focusing on Edric Dayne huddled alone under a tree rather than the Stark girl. “Honestly, I was beginning to think he’d let her freeze to death before he used that money. He thinks some Capital creep wants to take the girl as his whore when she gets out.” _And that’s probably not so far off from the truth._ “What did you do to him anyways? Why couldn’t you go to him yourself?”

“I have a long and complex history with the Stark family,” Petyr answered. “And that’s really all you need to know.”

Theon stifled the impulse to roll his eyes, like he did every time Baelish refused to tell him the entire story. “Why aren’t you more worried about the fact that she’s not moving and probably won’t be able to move any time soon? What happens if she doesn’t make it to the edge of the arena in time?”

“She’ll make it,” Petyr said, his eyes glued to the screen, which was showing Sansa and Willas Tyrell again. The pair of them were huddling under one of the newly arrived blankets. “The storm is backfiring on them. They were worried the tributes were growing too spread out, and this was their solution, which proves I work with idiots. It might have stopped Sansa’s progress, but it also stopped everyone else’s. The public aren’t going to want to watch a bunch of kids slowly freezing to death for much longer. Mark my words, the King will come to me to complain within the hour, and this storm will pass.”

 _He thinks life is a playing board, a game, and he’s always one step ahead._ “You better hope that you’re right.”

“You’ll come to realize soon that I’m always right.”

Again, it was all Theon could do not to roll his eyes. _And they call me conceited._ “I assume no one wants to watch Ramsay and that girl much longer either. It’s fucking disgusting. You couldn’t have arranged for a less twisted tribute to be picked alongside Stark?”

Petyr’s smirk vanished at that, and his lips twisted into a scowl. “I had nothing to do with that creature being selected. The President thought it would be a good idea to remind Roose Bolton that just because he betrayed the Starks to the Capital didn’t mean he was anything more than District trash fit only to do the Young Dragon’s bidding. Taking the boy was a message.”

“Well, I think the boy is sending a message back.”

“If he is, it’s not a very good one,” Baelish said, turning away from screen just as Theon did when Ramsay and a bloody, sobbing Alysanne Bulwer were shown once more. “Torturing a little District girl like that? Not to mention the heinous things he’s doing to the boy from the Storm District. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the North is plotting to overthrow their Mayor at this very moment.”

“That would be good news for us,” Theon said, wishing Baelish would mute the television, so he wouldn't have to listen to Alysanne’s pathetic little screams in the background. “And speaking of news. I received a letter from my father today.”

When Baelish looked up from the stack of papers on his desk and actually met Theon’s eyes, he knew he finally had the bastard’s attention. “And?”

“He says he’s prepared to join the cause on the condition that the dragon is taken care of before the Iron District gets involved. I tried to tell him—”

Petyr waves him silent before he can say anything else. “That will do just fine.”

Theon let out an exasperated sigh. “Do you seriously think you’ll manage to take out a bloody dragon on your own?”

“Who said I was on my own? I make the plans, Greyjoy. Always be the one with the plan and never be the one that has to get his hands dirty, and you’ll be running the country before long. Well, at least when I’m done with it.”

 

* * *

 

Samwell Tarly decided Jon must have been completely mad to think he was the right person for this mission. It was a bloody miracle he had managed to insert himself into the Capital Citadel when he couldn’t form a complete sentence without his tongue tripping over his words. It was even bigger miracle he had managed to swipe the Archmaester’s key off his desk when they met to discuss the merits, or lack thereof, of his most recent essay on the properties of dragon’s blood. _Don’t call too much attention to yourself_ , Mance had warned. _Don’t let them know how intelligent you really are._ Well, that much at least had been easy.

Actually finding what he needed in the Archmaster’s office was proving a far more difficult task. It wasn’t easy to flip through hundred-year-old tomes when your hands were shaking uncontrollably. _We’re depending on you, Sam. I know you can do it._ Jon’s parting words were ringing in his ears, only making him more anxious and even surer than he was before he left the Resistance that Jon and Mance had sent the wrong man.

“Did you really think it would be that easy?”

The sound of the foreign voice sent Sam toppling from the top of the bookshelf ladder and on to the floor with a loud _thump_. Panicked the Archmaster had returned, he scrambled for a plausible excuse, as he collected himself off the ground. “Sir, I— _Pate_? What are you doing here?”

The pale boy with the eerie, dark eyes smirked from where he leaned against the doorframe. He moved so quietly, Sam hadn’t even heard the door open. “At least fifty people walk in and out of this office every day. Did you really think the Archmaster would be stupid enough to keep the Citadel’s most dangerous secrets in his office? _This_ is who the Resistance sends to slay a dragon?”

“What—I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam responded lamely; as he wondered if there was any way he could outrun this boy. _Like you could outrun anyone._ Mance had never mentioned another person from the Resistance in the Capital. It was becoming clear to him that somehow he had been caught, that he had let everyone down.

Pate rolled his eyes and dangled a large, ancient-looking key in front of him. “What we need isn’t here. Follow me.”

 _Follow you where? To the Capital dungeons?_ Sam remained paralyzed in the center of the office, surrounded by open books and a shattered ladder. “I—I don’t—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re shaking like a maiden on her wedding night,” the boy grumbled, as he tucked the key back into the pocket of his vest. “If I were from the Capital, you’d already be dead or in a dungeon by now, because gods know you wouldn’t be able to talk yourself out of trouble. Now stop standing there like a dullard, and _follow me._ ”

Without another word, Pate disappeared through the doorway. Sam didn’t move for a moment, seriously debating sprinting away and hiding until he could find some way to alert Jon his cover had been blown. But he remembered Mance telling him that no one ever got anywhere by running scared and before he could talk himself out of it, he took off after Pate, trying to mimic the strange boy’s silent footsteps.

“Who are you?” Sam whispered, as they rounded a corner and moved down a winding set of stairs he didn’t recall ever seeing before.

“I’m Pate, and you’re Cord. Now, shut up and hurry.” Sam frowned but did as he was told, still not entirely sure he wasn’t being led to his death. It seemed like they spent hours descending the stairs, and neither of them said a word until Pate abruptly grabbed his arm and pulled him into a small alcove. “So you mean to kill the dragon?”

Sam seemed to choke on his own tongue. He shook his head rapidly and just barely managed a weak _no_ through his hacking coughs.

“Convincing,” Pate droned, looking down at him with a contempt that Sam was more than accustomed to by now. “I’ve been trained to see lies, and even a dead man could see yours. How have you survived this long?”

“Look, I don’t know you are and—”

“I’m a member of the Order,” Pate interrupted. “A refugee of the mainland Ice District, of the land the Targaryens had their pet burn to ashes. I was sent here to kill a dragon of my own, but first I’m going to help you kill yours.”

The alcove was far too small, barely large enough to accommodate the two of them, and Sam felt like he couldn’t breathe. He forced himself to take one long, deep breath and carefully consider the situation he was now in. At most, he only had another week before the Resistance would invade the Capital, and if he didn’t find a way to kill the dragon by then everything they planned would be ruined. It felt like he wasn’t any closer to discovering how to accomplish that task than he had been when he first arrived at the Capital, and he realized he had no choice but to trust the young man across from him.

“What do you need me to do?”

Pate smiled and looked slightly less disgusted with him. “Trust me."

 

* * *

 

The beast was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. It possessed the power to reduce entire Districts, and yet, despite all that power, it flew through the sky above her with the elegance of a dove. Its scales were a brilliant shade of cream trimmed with a gold that shone magnificently in the dying sunlight.

“Viserion,” she whispered, cautiously holding out her hand to the creature and bowing her head just slightly. “Viserion, come to me.”

The first cautious touch of the dragon’s nose to the back of her hand sent an inexplicable jolt through her entire body, a jolt she instantly, desperately wanted to feel again. It was like her skin, her eyes, her hair, her very _being wa_ s on fire, but it felt good, it felt extraordinary, it felt _right_. She mustered up all the bravery she had and reached out to gently stroke the creature’s head, careful to avoid its sensitive eyes. The scales were impossibly hot against her bare skin, but somehow her palms remained unburnt.

“It likes you.”

She gasped and stumbled away from the dragon, falling back on to her bottom. “Oh, Master—Master Blackfyre, I didn’t know you were here. Did Vis—did the President send you?” She wished then she could make her hands stop trembling; she didn’t want the dragon to sense her fear, to know her for what she truly was, a coward.

The peculiar, bald man her brother usually referred to as _that fucking eunuch_ smiled at her and held out his hand to hoist her back up. “There’s no need to fear me, child,” he said gently. “And, please, after all these years we’ve known each other, you can certainly start calling me Varys. And may I call you Daenerys?”

 _Viserys wouldn’t like this._ Her brother hated when she spoke to his servants. _They serve only me_ , he liked to remind her, _the true dragon_. But it had been so long since someone smiled at her so openly, so long since she had a friend, that she agreed against her better judgment. “Or Dany, if you’d like. I like to be called Dany.”

“Dany—”

“Just—just don’t tell my brother,” she quickly interjected, suddenly sure that this must be a ruse and that the Master of the Games will report everything she has said back to her brother the moment he leaves her side. _You’ve woken the dragon, little sister._ “He thinks it’s stupid.”

“Your secret is safe with me, Dany,” he promised, squeezing one of her hands, as if sealing a covenant between them. “I was saying that the dragon likes you. It’s drawn to you. Look, even now, it can’t take its eyes off you.”

Dany’s eyes widened when she turned to find that Viserion _was_ staring at her. When she met his deep, black eyes, the creature edged close to her to nudge her with his nose once more. “I’ve always loved him,” she whispered, resting her hands over its snout. “My brother doesn’t like when I come to visit him though.”

Varys leaned closer to her and whispered conspiratorially, “That’s because he’s jealous of your bond with the creature.”

The comment made her stomach twist itself into knots, and she was immediately struck by the urge to flee. She glanced around swiftly to make sure no one was watching them, that this wasn’t some trap set up to trick her into saying something against her brother. Everyone knew that people who said unkind things about the President didn’t survive long. “You really shouldn’t—”

“There’s no one here, Dany,” Varys assured her, opening his arms to sky, as if that proved his point. “No need to watch your words so carefully.”

Dany nodded slowly and looked around once more just to be sure. “Why—why do you think he likes me so much?”

“The dragon? Because you’re a true dragon, Daenerys. It can sense it in your blood, smell it. Have you never thought of trying to hatch your own?”

Daenerys gasped. Of course, she had dreamed of hatching her own dragons, of laying shining, scaled eggs across a fire and watching as her children pushed and emerged through the cracks of their shells. But those were only the foolish dreams of a stupid girl like her. “Is—is that even possible? No one has been able to hatch a dragon for—”

“For nearly a hundred years, yes,” Varys finished. “But you’ve dreamt of it haven’t you? Of glowing eggs and raging fires and your hands clutching at scales, as you’re flown over clouds to the very top of the world.”

 _How does he know that? I’ve never told anyone except Doreah._ The yellow-haired, Crownlander girl was the only friend Viserys had ever let Dany have and that was only because he was tired of her bothering him. “I—I—”

“Perhaps the dragon’s blood is in you, Dany,” he continued, ignoring her mountain discomfort with the conversation. “Perhaps _you_ are the one destined to bring the dragons back to Westeros, an army of them.”

“My brother is the real dragon,” she answered quickly, automatically. “And—and he would never let me try such a thing.”

“And who says you need his permission?”

 

* * *

 

Leaving the cave to urinate was proving a truly dreadful idea, and Sansa cursed herself for trying to maintain her modesty even now. There were a wide range of more awful things that could happen aside from lovely Willas Tyrell seeing her squat down and pee in a corner, like freezing to death or being ambushed by Ramsay Bolton.

By the time she finished, the snow was nearly up to her kneecaps. It was falling at alarmingly fast rate, so fast that she knew if it didn’t let up soon, they might end up buried alive inside the cave they originally thought their salvation. But what choice did they have? Leaving the cave for too long meant freezing to death, especially when all they had to fight off the biting winds of winter were the clothes on their backs and each other.

When she stumbled back through the opening of the cave, she was not surprised to find Willas still leaning over a pathetic pile of damp wood they had put together, smacking two rocks together in a fruitless attempt to start a fire. _The wood is too damp and the winds too strong_ , she almost told him for the third time, but Willas knew that just as well as she did. Perhaps he just wanted something to do to distract him from the wintry hell they were trapped in.

“I was beginning to worry about you,” he said, without taking his eyes away from the nonexistent fire. “You shouldn’t have left.”

She sunk to the ground next to him, pressing as close to his body as she could manage. “I won’t leave again. The snow was nearly to my knees.”

With a short sigh, Willas threw down the rocks and wrapped his arms around her instead, pulling her between his legs so that his body encircled hers. They sat together like that for a long while, too cold and tired to say anything else. The only other sound in the cave aside from the whistling winds outside was the violent clacking of their teeth.

“The sun is always shining in the Tarth.”

The statement startled her. In the last few days, Sansa had grown accustomed to hearing only hers and Willas’s voices. Though Brienne had been with them for nearly an entire day at that point, she had been unconscious for much of it. “Tarth?”

“The part of the Storm District I’m from,” Brienne clarified, as she wrapped her large arms around her body. “It’s an island. Some call it the Island of Sapphires. There are no real sapphires there are of course, but when the sun hits the ocean just right, it looks just like one.”

“It sounds beautiful,” Willas said wistfully. “Are there beaches?”

Brienne nodded, and Sansa thought she could see a smile pushing at the corners of the girl’s lips. “The sand is soft and warm under your feet.”

As Brienne went on about her home, Sansa began to imagine herself there instead of this place. She pictured herself in the blue bathing suit Mother had made for her to wear to the Hot Springs with her hair free and blowing around her in the wind. She pictured Willas beside her in a pair of bathing shorts like her brothers used to wear, his chest bare and his silky, brown curls falling lazily around his face. The Sansa on the beach, the warm Sansa in her dream considered what it would be like to touch those curls, to run her hands over that chest. The thought stirs up a warmth in her belly that clashes magnificently with the ice in her veins.

“I wish we were there right now,” Brienne sighed. “We could go swimming. And we could build a fire on the beach and tell stories. I’ve always loved stories.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Sansa answered softly, smiling though she’s not sure Brienne will be able to make it out through the ever-increasing darkness of the cave. “You should sit closer to us, if you can manage it. It will be warmer.”

There was a moment of silence in which Sansa worried she had somehow offended Brienne by offering her a place closer to her and Willas. _Or maybe she’s just too shy?_ Eventually, however, she heard the sounds of Brienne pushing herself across the cave floor until she was on the left side of Willas. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” Willas answered first, echoing Sansa’s own thoughts. “We need to look out for each other and stay warm. And _you_ need to rest, after what you’ve been through.”

“You’re both very kind,” Brienne had responded, before silence descended back on the cave. It wasn’t long before Brienne’s head rolled to the side, landing on Willas’s shoulder, and her quiet snores filled the air. Sansa, on the other hand, found sleep impossible.

“Are you still awake?”

“I can’t sleep,” she complained, leaning her head back to look at his face. “But we should try, it won’t do us any good if we’re exhausted when this storm lets up—”

“You have a beautiful heart, Sansa,” Willas interrupted, suddenly squeezing her tighter to him. “What you did for Brienne, insisting on saving her like that. I think you’re the most wonderful girl I’ve ever met.”

If hadn’t been so damn cold; Sansa knew her cheeks would have blushed furiously at the declaration. There are a hundred things she wants to say to him, but she settles on, “I am so grateful I got you as my partner.”

They remained still for a moment after that, simply looking into each other’s eyes. It was not until she noticed his eyes drop down to her lips that she decided she was going to kiss him. She had wanted to since that first night in the arena, when they held on to each other in the tree, but there was more to it than that. Even now, they were playing a game, with millions of people watching their every move. _It’s time to give them what they want,_ she thought. _And it’s time to take what I want._ Part of her wished he would kiss her instead, but this was better. This would make an impact.

Slowly, she pushed herself up until she was sitting on his right thigh and her lips were mere inches away from his own. He exhaled sharply when she placed her gloved hand on his shoulder and leant forward, causing his warm breath to wash over her lips. To her surprise and pleasure, it was him who closed the remaining distance between them and gently pressed his lips against hers in their first kiss.

It was not the most spectacular first kiss there ever was. They were both shaking wildly from the cold. His teeth were chattering loudly and his lips felt cold and chapped. There were also entirely too many layers between them, the thick jumpsuits on their bodies, the gloves on their hands, and hats pulled over their heads and around their ears. It wasn’t the kind of kiss Sansa would have dreamt up in any of her silly fantasies as a girl, but somehow she couldn’t imagine one sweeter.

It was over as quickly as it began, a simple, chaste press of the lips, but it sent her heart racing in her chest. “That was—”

“Amazing,” Willas whispered, resting his forehead over hers. And it was at that exact moment they saw a shadow pass across the opening of the cave.

“Shit,” Willas muttered, immediately pushing Sansa behind him and reaching for the sword. “What was that?”

Sansa peered over her shoulders, narrowing her eyes. “We would’ve heard the snow crunching if it was a person, right?”

“Stay here. I’ll check it out.”

When he went to stand, Sansa shot forward and grabbed his hand. “We’ll got together,” she said, pulling out one of her daggers.

“Together,” he agreed, helping her to her feet. They moved across the cave floor cautiously. When they reached the opening, Sansa pulled back her arm and prepared to let one of her remaining daggers fly. But when she poked her head outside all she could hear was the wind and all she could see was snow, snow, snow and— _What’s that?_

There was a tiny, flashing red light blinking through the darkness only steps away from where they were. “Do you think—?” Willas began.

“It’s a gift!” Sansa exclaimed, bounding forward without another word. She had seen enough Hunger Games to know what that blinking light meant. Sure enough, attached to it, she found a large, black bag that she quickly slung over her shoulder and carried back inside to protection of their shelter.

“Gods, please let it be a blanket,” Willas prayed, as Sansa pulled open the zipper.

“Would _two_ blankets work?” she chuckled, throwing the first one at him. When she took out the second, she stared at it for a moment, wishing she could take off her gloves and feel the soft, thick wool against her skin. These were Northern-made blankets, and she knew they would feel like home.

Willas wrapped the first blanket carefully around a still sleeping Brienne's body. Sansa brought the second one over and tossed it around his shoulders so it could shelter the two of them. She let her head rest against his chest and sighed. "We're going to be okay, right?"

She felt his lips press against her forehead. "Yes."

As she drifted off to sleep in his arms, she dreamed of a life with Willas Tyrell in a different world, outside of the arena. She dreamed of a small house on the Island of Sapphires, she dreamed of three little boys with her eyes and Willas's dark curls, and she dreamed of a little girl who looked just like Arya. It was a future that could have been, if only a dragon hadn't been standing in her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for taking SO long to update this. Without getting into too many details, life got in the way big time. I'm happy to say things have settled down, and I'll be able to update far more regularly in the future.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :) Again, so sorry for the delay.


	12. The Standoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snow had stopped falling an hour ago. The second the storm ceased, Sansa wanted to leave the cave and make for the edge again, but she felt guilty rousing Brienne and Willas from the first proper sleep either of them had had since they entered the arena. She tried to go back to sleep herself, to build up her strength and allow the rising sun to soften the sea of snow that accumulated outside during the night. By the look of it, it would be almost over their knees and nearly impossible to make it through without rest. But when she rested her head against Willas’s shoulder and closed her eyes, all she could see were Petyr’s gray-green eyes staring back at her. Make it to the edge, my sweet Sansa, she could hear him saying. Make it to the edge, and we’ll destroy them all.

The snow had stopped falling an hour ago. The second the storm ceased, Sansa wanted to leave the cave and make for the edge again, but she felt guilty rousing Brienne and Willas from the first proper sleep either of them had had since they entered the arena. She tried to go back to sleep herself, to build up her strength and allow the rising sun to soften the sea of snow that accumulated outside during the night. By the look of it, it would be almost over their knees and nearly impossible to make it through without rest. But when she rested her head against Willas’s shoulder and closed her eyes, all she could see were Petyr’s gray-green eyes staring back at her. _Make it to the edge, my sweet Sansa,_ she could hear him saying. _Make it to the edge, and we’ll destroy them all._

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and began to gently push on Willas’s shoulder. “Willas,” she whispered. “Willas, we need to start moving.”

With a quiet groan, Willas stretched his arms over his head and blinked open his golden-brown eyes. “But the storm—”

“The snow stopped falling over an hour ago. And we should start moving again before Ramsay and the others do. We’ll make our way toward the edge and—”

“Why are you two going to the edge?” Sansa jumped, surprised to find Brienne awake and staring at them curiously. “What’s there? What even happens when you get to the edge of the arena? I don’t understand. We should be trying to find Edric.”

Panic erupted and twisted in her gut. As Brienne waited for her answer, she could imagine the gamemakers back in the Capital doing the same. She could imagine them leaning forward in their chairs, waiting to find out exactly what she had planned for when they get there, so they can ruin it with a simple push of a button. “I want to lure Ramsay Bolton out from the Cornucopia. The further we get away from him, the more cut off he’ll be from his base and the supplies there.” It was a decent answer, one that seemed plausible enough, at least to her.

Though she liked to pretend otherwise, she’s sure Ramsay Bolton must be hunting her even now. It would give him great pleasure to destroy another Stark. He would probably get off knowing her brother would be watching on helplessly while he slashed a dagger across her throat. _  
_

“Oh,” Brienne answered, nodding slowly. “That makes sense, I guess. You think he’s after you, don’t you? Is there something personal there?”

 _His father betrayed my father to the Capital. He abandoned him and left him to die and climbed over his bones to thrust himself into power._ “He attacked my brother.” She’s surprised the words leave her lips. It’s not a memory she liked bringing up. She has never talked about it with anyone other than Robb.

“He what?”

“He attacked my brother," she repeated through clenched teeth. "It was after my parents died, and Robb and I were left alone to raise our younger brothers. We tried to keep to ourselves and stay out of trouble. Our brothers needed us, after all. But eventually we started going crazy. Robb got to leave for work, but I—I hardly ever left the house. So one day the neighbors agreed to watch the boys for us, and we went into town for market day. We didn’t have the money to buy anything, of course, but we thought we could at least look around a little. We were hardly there an hour when we ran into Ramsay. He started saying the most horrid things about my parents and my missing siblings and _me_ , and Robb just couldn’t take it anymore. He threw a punch, but Ramsay’s cronies had him on his back before he could even blink. I begged them to leave him alone, but Ramsay—he climbed over my brother while the others held him down. He took out his dagger and dragged it across Robb’s beautiful face until he was soaked in blood with the word traitor permanently carved into his cheek. Then he looked up and _smiled_ and promised to do the same to me someday. So yes, there is something personal there.”

Both of their mouths were hanging open by the time she finished. There was a look in their eyes that she knew well enough, _pity_. It rankled her a bit. They were all trapped in this hell; she didn’t need their pity anymore than they needed hers. Then she thought of Robb. He would have absolutely _hated_ their pity. Even when they couldn’t afford to feed themselves or fix the holes in their roof during the rainy season, Robb never wanted to ask for help. She hoped he wouldn’t hate her for telling his story for the world to hear.

“We really should be going now.”

Willas swallowed and reached out for her hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “If—if anyone ever hurt one of my siblings like that, I would—I don’t even know what I would do. I would want to kill him.”

 _I do want to kill him_. “We really should be going,” she repeated, squeezing his hand quickly before standing up. “It’s not going to be an easy journey.”

 

* * *

 

They left the cave only a short while later and after only an hour of walking, she was already exhausted. Moving through the dense, knee-high snow was difficult enough without them having to double back every few minutes to obscure their tracks. She tried to hide her fatigue until she turned around back to her companions and realized Willas and Brienne were trying to do the same. “I don’t think this is worth it anymore,” she finally said. “Trying to cover our tracks. We’re never going to get anywhere this way.”

“No, we can’t stop, that would be like inviting Ramsay to track us down,” Willas argued, hunching over to lean on his knees. “We can do it.”

“I can barely breathe, Willas,” Sansa wheezed. “If it’s this hard for us, it’s going to be hard for him to move as well. We need to risk it.”

“Why? Are we in some kind of a hurry?"

For the first time since they found her, Sansa considered that rescuing Brienne might have been a mistake. Every question she asked made it clearer there is something off with Willas and Sansa’s desire to get to the edge. She just hoped Petyr could distract the other gamemakers from catching on. “I just want to keep ahead of Ramsay. That’s all.”

“Let’s just keep moving,” Willas sighed. He dislodged his leg from the snow and took another step forward. Sansa turned and started to follow his lead when a sudden, piercing scream stopped her dead in her tracks. She ducked down and looked around frantically for the source of the sound. It took her nearly a full minute to realize the person screaming was Willas.

Blood was drenching the snow around him, but Sansa couldn’t tell where it all was coming from. Brienne was shouting something at her from his side, but she couldn’t make a word of it out over his screams and the pounding of her heart. _Quiet_ , she wanted to scream back at them, _We need to be quiet!_ But she couldn’t form the words. Her vision began to blur and her body swayed, but she forced herself to focus on what was happening in front of her. Brienne was bent over, inspecting something by Willas’s leg, something she couldn't see.

“Sansa! We need your help!” Brienne called out. “He’s trapped!”

 _Stop yelling. They’ll all hear us._ Finally, Sansa managed to free one of her legs from the snow and went to take a step. But the moment she did, she felt an abrupt, sharp pain shoot up from her thigh. Her body went flying backward, and she landed hard in the snow. At first, she thought a particularly bad leg cramp had taken her down, but when she looked to where the pain was radiating from, she found an arrow lodged there. It was sticking straight out from her thigh, and blood was beginning to drip into the snow below her. “Oh gods,” she muttered, “Oh gods, no. Oh gods.”

“Sansa?” Brienne looked up, her eyes bulging when she noticed the arrow. She opened her mouth to say something, but then her eyes snapped to something past Sansa. “Sansa, stay down! Stay down!”

Just as she ducked her head lower, she heard another arrow whiz by mere inches over her. Part of her wanted to stay lying there, to bury her head in the snow and play dead until whoever was attacking them passed by or just killed her. She was too tired for this, tired of walking and fighting and trying to survive. But then Willas screamed again, and she knew she couldn’t allow herself give up yet.

She lifted her head and couldn’t stop a scream from leaving her own lips when she saw Harry Hardyng barreling toward them with his sword outstretched. “Brienne!” she shouted, “Help him!” Brienne immediately went to raise her sword as well, but it was too late, Harry had already swung at Willas.

With an agonized grunt, Willas threw himself backwards away from Harry. He landed flat on his back, but whatever Brienne had been looking at by his knee kept him from moving very far. It looked like the blade had only grazed him, but there was so much blood, for a panicked moment Sansa was sure he was dead. _You’d know if he was dead. They’d hurt you as well_ , she tried to remind herself.

Before Harry could land a more devastating strike, Brienne stepped in front of Willas’s blood soaked body and smashed her sword into Harry’s. Brienne was the larger and more powerful of the pair, but Harry was quicker, even in the thick snow. _You have to help her. You have to help Willas._ She went to reach for one of her remaining daggers when another arrow flew by and grazed Brienne’s shoulder, failing to stick. The Storm District girl hardly reacted to the blow, but Sansa could tell the shooter was aiming for the neck and knew what she had to do.

She turned her back on the scene in front of her and peered into the trees surrouding them. Catelyn Bracken had done an admirable job of hiding herself, but it was easy enough to spot her golden hair against the dark greens and browns of the arena forest. Sansa stumbled forward, making sure to keep as low to the ground as she could. Though she would have liked to be closer, when a third arrow shot by her, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Missing Walder Frey the day before when Willas had been depending on her had left her shaken. She couldn’t afford to miss this shot as well.

The cool handle of the dagger felt sweet in her hand. Ever since the Targaryens took her family away, or maybe even long before then, Sansa had felt powerless. Her opinions and desires hadn’t mattered in so long. It was like she was trapped in an ocean, constantly jostled and swept from place to place without any way of fighting back. But with the dagger in her hand she felt like she could fight, she felt like she could actually protect the people she cared for. The weapon left her hand without her even realizing she had raised it. The cries behind her died away for a moment and the world seemed to come to a standstill. The only thing she could see was the dagger gleaming and turning in the air.

A small shout and the sound of a body falling from a tree snapped Sansa out of her reverie. _I hit her. I actually hit her._

“Put down the fucking sword!”

The voice made every hair on her body stand on end. It was a male voice, deep and commanding, but she knew it didn’t belong to either Harry or Willas. _Ramsay_ , was her first thought, and it took every bit of bravery she had left to turn around.

She felt herself sigh when she found Edric Dayne instead, covered in blood and dirt but still as beautiful as she remembered him with violet eyes and hair the color of sand. The boy from the Sand District was holding a dirk over Harry’s neck, who was still pointing his sword at a fallen Brienne’s heart.

“I said put down the fucking sword, Hardyng!” Edric growled again. “I’ll slit your bloody throat, I swear it.”

Grudgingly, Harry tossed the sword aside and held up his hands. “What are you waiting for, Dayne? Get it over with.”

Edric laughed at that. “What am I waiting for? I have a feeling your little girlfriend has an arrow aimed at my neck at this very moment.” Edric turned his head and looked over toward the trees. “Come on out, sweetheart! You might be able to kill me, but I’ll take him down with me, and where will that leave you then?”

Catelyn emerged from the trees with an arrow drawn and a dagger lodged in her leg. “How are we going to play this, Dayne?”

Edric snorted and pressed the dirk closer to Harry’s throat. “I see the Stark girl hit you. Seems you’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“It was a lucky shot,” Cat hissed back, with a grimace. “Let Harry go, and I’ll turn my arrow on the redhead instead. We kill these two and go our separate ways, all right?”

The coldness of the offer shocked her. Perhaps, it shouldn’t have surprised her. What did Catelyn Bracken owe her? She and Willas were both injured and weak, subject to whatever the two stronger pairs decided on. It was the perfect moment to do away with two more people standing in their way to victory.

“Don’t, Edric,” Brienne whispered. “Don’t, they helped me. I’d be dead without them. I owe them. _You_ owe them.”

Edric didn’t even spare Brienne a glance. His eyes were still locked with Catelyn’s, so Sansa did the only thing she could think of to keep her and Willas alive, even if for just a moment longer. “I hit you once, and I’ll hit you again,” she declared to Catelyn, holding out her last dagger.

Catelyn smirked in response, and Sansa wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. “And if I turn my arrow on the cripple instead?”

“Then my last act will be to kill you.”

At that, Catelyn _laughed_ , loud and clear. “Bloody, fucking hell. I’m being threatened by the stupid little girl who called herself _lucky_.”

That made a fire erupt in Sansa’s gut, and her grip tightened on the dagger. She was used to people not taking her seriously, but she finally felt it was time for that to end. “My name is Sansa. I am the daughter of Catelyn Tully, who destroyed plenty of people like you in order to prevail, with a grace you’ll never possess. I am the niece of Benjen Stark, who no one thought would last more than a day in the arena, but who went home victorious. And I swear to the gods, if you hurt Willas, I will make sure you die with my name on your lips.”

Catelyn’s smirk faded away at that, but she still didn’t lower her arrow. “It seems like we’ve reached a bit of an impasse, my friends,” Edric interjected. He finally looked back at Brienne, “You trust these two?” he asked, nodding to her and Willas, who had barely moved since Harry’s attack.

Brienne nodded. “Yes.”

“Fine.” Edric loosened his grip on Harry and pushed him forward. “Stark, keep your dagger aimed at Miss Bracken, I don’t want her getting any ideas.” Sansa did as she was told though she was unsure what Edric hoped to accomplish. “You two get the fuck out of here,” he said to Catelyn. “Keep walking that way. If you get it in your head to come after us again, remember what happened here. Now, get that arrow out of my face.”

Catelyn remained still for a moment but finally lowered her weapon. “Let’s go, Harry.”

“I want my sword back,” Harry spat. “I want—”

“Not going to happen, mate,” Edric interrupted. “Consider yourself lucky you’re leaving with your life.”

Harry scowled but hauled himself off the ground and made his way toward Catelyn until he was standing behind her. “We’re going to back away slowly,” Catelyn said. “If you make a move before we disappear from view, I swear I’ll kill you.”

“By all means,” Edric agreed, giving the girl a smile so bright that Sansa’s heart started to beat a little faster despite herself. “Now, leave.”

The two of them began to back away, but Sansa found herself shouting out before they could get far. “Wait, I want my dagger back!”

“Excuse me?” Catelyn’s eyes widened, and she shot Sansa an incredulous look. “The one lodged in my thigh?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Then I want my fucking arrow back.”

“I’m not the one with a dagger aimed at my heart. Give me the dagger.”

She could hear Edric laughing again behind her. The dagger and the speech to Catelyn might have made her feel powerful, but it seemed it really didn’t do much to make other people take her seriously. “You’re a right bitch, you know that?” Catelyn hissed. “Fine, take your fucking dagger. It won’t save you in the end.” She ripped the blade from her flesh without so much as a wince and tossed into the snow at Sansa’s feet. “May I go now, your highness?” she mocked.

“You may,” Sansa answered, glaring back at her. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

“Oh, I certainly hope so. Though your boyfriend doesn’t look too good. You might not have much longer.” With that, Harry and Catelyn backed away from them, so slowly that Sansa thought it would never be over. She was itching to run to Willas’s side and see just how much damage Harry had done. When they finally disappeared into the trees, Sansa knew she ought to have waited a bit longer to lower her weapon, but she immediately tucked it into her belt and sprinted to her fallen partner’s side.

“Willas? Willas?” she cried, lifting his head from the snow to rest it on his lap. “Are you—?” _Are you okay?_ That’s what she was going to ask, but when her eyes finally found his wounds, she knew the answer. The cut Harry inflicted didn’t look particularly deep, but he seemed to be losing a dangerous amount of blood. The gut wound wasn’t the most grievous of his injuries though. Sansa suddenly realized why Willas couldn’t move and why Brienne had been looking at his knee. The sharp spikes of a trap hidden in the snow were stabbing into Willas’s right knee, keeping him locked in place. She remembered Catelyn putting together traps just like it during their training sessions.

“We ought to kill them both.”

She looked up to see Brienne and Edric standing over them, each holding swords. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ , was all she could think. How could she have been naïve enough to put her dagger away, expecting these two to help her? “Please—”

“Edric, they helped me,” Brienne said, tears her in wide blue eyes. “I was about to die, and they risked their lives to help me.”

“Then they’re idiots,” Edric snapped, though Sansa noticed his face soften slightly. “It would be a mercy anyways. He’s not going to make it with that leg wound.”

“Please, just let me try to help him,” Sansa begged, unable to keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks. “Please, just let me try. I don’t want him to die like this.” Willas let out a long groan and squeezed her hand. “Please, just let me try. We can take on Harry and Catelyn together. We can take on Ramsay together. We’ll be stronger together, the four of us.”

“Keeping him around will only slow us down,” Edric argued, grimacing when he looked at Willas’s knee. “And when he dies, they’ll take something from you. My guess is they’ll take that dangerous hand of yours, and what use would you be to us then? Do you think you hair would bring us luck?”

“Don’t mock her, Edric,” Brienne scolded softly. “She helped us."

“She helped herself,” Edric spat back. “We can’t be taking on stragglers, Brienne. They’re not our responsibility.”

Sansa wanted to hate Edric Dayne. She wanted to hate him for not immediately trying to help her and Willas after what they did for his partner, but she understood him. It was obvious from the look in his eyes and the way he kept chewing on the corner of his lip that this wasn’t easy for him. Before entering the arena, she doubted he even knew he was capable of something like this, but the Capital could bring out the worst in them all.

“You don’t have to help us. Just don’t kill us. Like you said, he doesn’t stand much of a chance, and I’ve got an arrow sticking out of my leg. Just leave us. If you try to kill us, I won’t go down easy. Don’t make this into a fight.” She knew as well as they must have that she didn’t stand much of a chance against them, but she thought she could inflict a few decent wounds before they inevitably killed her.

“We’re not leaving you,” Brienne snapped, as she grabbed Edric’s hand, the one still holding his sword. “You helped me, and now we're going to help you. Aren't we, Edric?”

Edric grinded his teeth and looked between her and Brienne, clearly exasperated with the situation. “Fine, fine, _fine_ ,” he muttered. “But we can’t stay here. I don’t trust those two not to ambush us. Let’s move.”

After a number of failed attempts to remove the trap from Willas’s leg, they opted to pull it out of the ground instead. Willas said little during the struggle, only occasionally blinking open his eyes and moaning. She wished he would actually speak, that he would assure everything would be okay. But in her heart, she knew everything wouldn’t be okay. There was simply too much blood, and she had no notion of how to fix it.

So concerned with Willas’s injuries, she barely registered her own. Every step sent a fiery, nearly unbearable pain surging through her and each glance at the arrow made her feel ill, but she wasn’t sure if it would be too dangerous to pull it out. She tried to remember what her mother has told her about arrows, her own weapon of choice.

“You’ll need to widen the wound,” Edric interrupted her thoughts. “Use one of your daggers. If you don’t widen the wound first, the arrowhead will probably get stuck in your leg, and that will be a mess. Still, even if you get it out clean, if it doesn’t get infected, it’ll be a bloody miracle.”

Sansa had watched men die of infected wounds before. Cley Cerwyn, one of Robb’s closest friends from the stockyards, had accidentally chopped off part of his hand once. The old apothecary in town did her best for him, but Sansa had watched on with Robb as the fever took him, reducing him to a sweaty, shivering, delusional mess before death finally came for him like an angel of mercy. _That will be me soon, and Willas too._

Sansa looked up toward the sky, praying the cameras would catch the desperation on her face. _Help me,_ she wanted to scream. _Uncle B_ _enjen, I need help. Send me a gift. Send me anything._ Surely she must have fans in the Capital, if Benjen could afford to send her two blankets the day before. Surely there were people who didn’t want to see her die just yet.

But no gift came, only the voice of Aurane Waters, coming down from the sky like the voice of a god. “Hello, tributes! It’s been an eventful day for those of you who remain, but the day isn’t over quite yet. The Capital would like to reward you all for your hard work. We have arranged for a feast tonight at the Cornucopia. Yes, a feast! And before you all brush our generous offer aside, just know that we won’t be serving _food_ at this particular feast. On the table will be bags containing something each of you needs urgently. Come and collect your prize, or hide in the trees and let your opponents seize the spoils. The choice is yours.”

It was hard to hear her own thoughts over the beating of her heart. She felt dizzy and frightened and sick, but there was another feeling emerging inside of her. It felt oddly like hope. She knew the feasts were excuses to get the tributes in all one place, so they’d kill each other off, but this was a chance to survive she couldn’t let pass.

“Help me get the arrow out,” she said, holding out her dagger to Edric. “I don’t think I can do it myself.”

Edric furrowed his eyebrows. She knew he was trying to decide why exactly she trusted him not to turn the dagger on her, but she could read him better than that. Edric Dayne wasn’t the type to kill someone when it wasn’t a fair fight. “You’re not seriously thinking about going, are you? You’ll die.”

“I’ll die either way.” She shoved the dagger into his hand and stretched out her leg. “Get on with it then."

Edric frowned and weighed the dagger in his hand. “You’re a little bit crazy, aren’t you?” he asked, his lips twitching with what threatened to be a smile. He pulled the belt of his snowsuit off and handed it to her. “You’re going to want to bite down on something,” he explained. “Do we have anything to tie it up with after?”

Brienne knelt down and rummaged through Willas’s backpack. She pulled out one of the blankets and tore some of the fabric away. “This will have to do.”

Sansa closed her eyes, bit down on the belt, and braced herself for what was to come. The first push of the dagger against her skin burned more than she could have imagined. The belt muffled her screams, but it couldn’t stop the hot tears that broke free. She struggled to remain conscious, but with each new twist of the dagger, she could feel her body trying to shut down, trying to spare from the pain.

When Edric held up the arrow triumphantly, Sansa looked down at the newly opened wound and swiftly proceeded to vomit. “Shit,” Edric muttered. “Give me the blanket.” He wrapped the fabric impossibly tight around thigh, and she let out a long groan. “Don’t you dare scream,” he warned, as he finished tying it. “There. Though I doubt you’ll be able to walk.”

“You’d be surprised what people are capable of when they have no other choice,” Sansa answered, her voice sounding strained and foreign to her own ears. “Help me up.”

“You’re awfully bossy for a girl at my mercy,” Edric chuckled, as he pulled her to her feet. The first step on the wounded leg hurt even worse than she thought it would. She might be able to manage walking, but there was no way she was going to be able to run. She’d be a crippled sheep waiting for slaughter in the Cornucopia. _But what other choice do you really have?_

She ignored Edric’s comment and leant over Willas’s bloody, trembling body. “You need to stay with me, okay? You need to hold on.”

“Sansa, please…” His voice was so quiet, she could barely hear it over the wind. “Don’t go. Don’t go.”

“I have to go, Willas.”

He went to shake his head but winced at even that small movement. “I’ll come back. I promise. It’s my turn to save you.” Willas opened his mouth as if to argue, but no words came out, only another pained groan. She pushed herself back up and looked to Brienne and Edric. “Are either of you coming?” She silently prayed they wouldn’t make her brave the Cornucopia alone. She didn’t think she could survive on her own.

“No,” Edric said without hesitation. “It’s a death trap, and I don’t need anything that badly. You’re on your own for this, Stark. We’ll watch him for you, but that’s all.”

The response felt like another blow, but she forced herself not to show her disappointment. “If you let anything happen to him—”

“We’ll do our best, I swear,” Brienne assured her, reaching out to hold Sansa’s hand. “I owe you two my life. I’ll do my best.”

Sansa nodded and reached out for Edric to give her back her dagger. She tucked it into her belt alongside the only other one she had left. “If he—if he comes to while I’m away, tell him—would you tell him that—?”

“What?”

Sansa wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted them to tell Willas. _That I love him?_ Did she really love him? They hardly knew each other. Only a few weeks ago, she hadn’t even knew Willas Tyrell existed. “Tell him I’m sorry, that I didn’t get to properly say goodbye.”

Edric nodded. “We’ll tell him.”

With that, Sansa turned and began her agonizing trek away from her ultimate destination, the edge of the arena, back to the Cornucopia and Ramsay Bolton. _This is the day you die._ She couldn’t stop the tears from falling, just as she couldn’t stop herself from thinking she had let everyone down—Petyr, Willas, Robb, Benjen, Bran, Rickon, Jeyne, Arya, Jon, and so many others. She had failed them all.


	13. Acts of Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today was that day. Today was the day Petyr had spoken of, the day she had no choice but to fight. Pretty smiles and sweet words wouldn’t save her this time. She needed to be brave, just as her mother had been. With that thought in her mind, she took the first step forward and then another step and another and another until she was sprinting to the table and the backpack that could save hers and Willas’s lives.

Robb Stark wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream and rage and throw his mug at the television so it would all just go away. He wanted to slam his head hard enough against the wall to knock out every single memory since the Rebellion began. He wanted to go back to a time when his sister was giggling over boys and fairy stories with Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel instead of fighting for her life in the arena and losing, even if only in his head. But, in the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do any of those things. He couldn’t bring himself to move at all, so he remained still and silent, eyes glued to the television screen while his sister limped forward, crimson blood soaking the snow in her wake. The expression on her face was harder to bear than any injury on her body. It was defeated, blank, like she had already accepted the game was over for her.

_Fight_ , he wanted to scream at the screen, loud enough for her to hear him somehow. _Fight, Sansa, you have to keep fighting._

“I think she’ll be okay, don’t you? She got the arrow out, and the wound doesn’t look too deep,” Jeyne said from where she stood behind him, her fingers tapping anxiously against the back of his chair. “At least the snow melted, right? So the walk will be easier for her.”

Robb didn’t have the heart to tell her that the snow was probably melting because the gamemakers wanted to ensure Sansa and the other tributes arrived at the Cornucopia in time for the bloodbath to come. _They want it to be painful. They want the traitor’s daughter to die in a sea of blood for the entire continent to see._

Bile pushed up his throat at the thought. He couldn’t stop picturing his sweet sister covered in blood with Ramsay Bolton and his cruel, pale eyes standing over her body. He shook his head and swallowed the bile back down even though it made the back of his throat burn. He couldn’t let Jeyne realize just how terrified he was for Sansa. He needed her hope now, as farfetched as it might have been. He needed someone to tell him it wasn’t over yet.

“You really should eat something,” Jeyne said, as she took a seat on the windowsill next to him. “You’re so thin.”

Every time Robb tried to eat, the guilt he felt was so overwhelming he could rarely stomach more than a few bites. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was taking food away from his brothers, food the two growing boys needed more than him. He was the head of the Stark family now, with Mother and Father gone. He couldn’t protect Sansa or Jon or Arya, but Bran and Rickon were still with him, and he refused to let them down as well.

“I’m fine, Jeyne.”

“Robb—”

“Really, I’m fine,” he repeated, trying to smile. His eyes flickered back to the remaining pieces of the onion bread Jeyne had brought over for them. There was a time when he balked at any charity offered to him, but it was hard to turn Jeyne away when her spare loaves of bread were the only things keeping them alive these days. “Thank you again for—for bringing the bread over. I really can’t thank you enough.”

Jeyne nodded. “It’s what Sansa would have wanted.”

There was a strange twist in his gut that felt oddly like jealousy. He wondered what kind of fool would be resentful that his sister’s best friend preferred his sister to him, but the idea that she was doing all of this for Sansa left him disappointed. _Who did you think she was doing this for? For you? For some loser who can’t even take care of his family?_

When Jeyne turned back to the television, he felt compelled to do the same though he dreaded what he would find there. When the screen abruptly flashed to Ramsay Bolton sharpening a knife just outside of the Cornucopia and bragging to Walder Frey about how he would make himself a new coat out of the Stark bitch’s skin, he felt like he might actually vomit. “I—I need to check on the boys.” He shot up from his chair and ran away from Jeyne before she could reach out and stop him, before she could reach out and tell him that comforting lie of hers for the hundredth time—that it would all be okay.

He swallowed down the bile again and took a deep breath before poking his head inside the room Bran and Rickon shared. The two of them were sleeping soundly in their old mattress on the floor. They used to be energetic boys. Bran was always climbing, and Rickon had loved playing around with the wooden sword Father carved for him before he left. But these days, they slept more than anything else. Sleeping was easier than being awake.

When he pushed the door open further, the light from the hallway reflected off something lying between them. He moved closer until he realized it was the toy soldier Jeyne had brought over with the bread. _It was my father’s when he was boy_ , she had explained to him. _He never had a son to give it to, and I thought the boys might like it._ They had played with the small, faded figurine for hours and now it was nestled carefully in the blankets with them like some great treasure. The sight brought tears to his eyes. He remembered the army of freshly painted toy soldiers he and Jon used to play with before everything went to hell and hated that he couldn’t give Bran and Rickon that same life.

“Robb, are they all right? What’s wrong?”

Robb pushed the door open far enough to allow Jeyne to see inside. “I haven’t seen them so happy about something in a long time. Bringing that toy—” His voice cracked, and he had to stop to take a breath. “It was—it was very kind of you. It’s just the distraction they needed. They’ve been so worried about Sansa. It was very kind of you.”

Jeyne bit her lip and backed slowly away from the room until she was leaning against the wall and looking down at her scuffed black shoes. “I wasn’t always so kind though, was I?” she sighed, running a hand through her hair. “You must have really hated me back then.”

Robb’s eyebrows furrowed, as he closed the door gently behind him. “Hated you? What do you mean? Jeyne, I’ve never hated you.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Jeyne said, wringing her hands together. “It won’t hurt my feelings or anything like that. I know what I was like back then, when we were kids. You just have to understand that I wanted to be a part of your family so badly. Did you know that? No, I doubt it; you probably barely knew I existed. Gods, I used to dream about being a Stark, about living in the Mayor’s Mansion. I wanted Sansa to be my sister. I used to imagine that I was all the time. I hated that she wasn’t, and I hated that Arya was.”

“Jeyne—”

“I wasn’t very nice to Arya. I realize that now, and I hope—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Robb interrupted before the inevitable apology could pass her lips. “We were only kids, Jeyne. Kids do stupid things all the time. I don’t hold it against you, and neither would Arya. All Arya would care about is what you’re doing for us now. She would love you for the kindness you’ve shown us. And from what I remember, Arya wasn’t particularly pleasant toward you either."

Jeyne paused for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip and glancing around, as if she thought someone might be listening in. There was a small bruise forming on the edge of her lip from the habit. When Robb noticed it, he was stuck by the strange urge to reach forward and try to brush it away. “Robb, do you—do you think Arya got away? That she’s really with the Resistance now? Sansa did.”

“I do,” he answered without hesitation. He wasn’t sure of many things anymore, but he had no doubt that if there really was a Resistance in the Wild North, Arya had tracked them down. “Arya is strong, so strong, and too clever for her own good. She found them. She survived, and she found them, and she found Jon. I know she did. And trust me, Arya won’t rest until she’s destroyed all of them for what they’ve done to us.”

“And you?”

“What about me?”

“Do—do you want vengeance?” Jeyne whispered, glancing to the side again. “Do you have something planned for the people who betrayed your father? People around town still whisper about you sometimes, you know. Some of them think you mean to take up your father’s cause someday.”

He used to dream about that, about rallying the men and women of the Northern District who remained loyal to the Starks to his side and overthrowing Roose Bolton. He used to dream about gathering an army made up of all the Districts to destroy the Targaryens and the Capital and everything they stood for. But those dreams died a long time ago. “I’m sure those whispers have all but stopped since the Mayor had me fired from the woodyards,” Robb said, feeling his hands ball into fists. “They all know I can barely afford to feed myself anymore. They all know I’m living off your handouts. And they all know I’ll break if Sansa dies in there. I’m weak in their eyes. I’m nothing like my father. They wouldn’t follow me, and why should they?”

“Oh, Robb, that’s not—”

“That’s the truth,” he snapped, more harshly than he intended. “There’s no use talking about this, Jeyne. I don’t _want_ to talk about this.”

“But—but what if there were use talking about it?”

When Jeyne looked around them for the third time, he found himself growing frustrated. “Who exactly are you worried about overhearing us? Do you think someone’s living in my walls? Trust me, spying on me wouldn’t be worth living in this hellhole for more than a day.”

“ _Anyone_. I’m worried about absolutely _anyone_ overhearing us,” she hissed, leaning closer to him. “I—I shouldn’t be saying this out loud. In fact, I’m a complete fool to be saying this out loud and to be coming over here at all, but—but there have been _rumblings_ lately. I’ve a good ear for gossip. Sansa was always jealous, never knew how I always heard things before she did. The thing is, you Starks stand out with your pretty blue eyes and red hair, but I’ve never stood out. People will say all sorts of things without realizing I’m there and—”

“What did you hear, Jeyne?”

“Apparently, there are—there are whispers that the Resistance is planning on making a move against the Capital soon,” she said so quietly he had to lean in even closer to hear her. Their foreheads were almost touching as he waited for her to elaborate. “They want to incite a second rebellion against the Targaryen Administration. The Greatjon claims he knows someone on the inside there. He doesn’t know any specifics—”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Robb sighed, leaning away from her. He grasped her hand without thinking and led her back to the television. “The Greatjon is a big talker, Jeyne. I’m sure he was just telling stories to impress—”

“No, I don’t think so, Robb,” Jeyne cut in, her mouth set in a hard line. “I’ve heard plenty of the Greatjon’s tall tales, but _this_ was different. He was serious, and he was anxious. I’ve never seen him look so anxious. He was telling Howland Reed that they’d need to be ready if the Resistance launched an attack. He said they would need to have a leader in mind, someone that could inspire the Northern District to rebel despite the danger it would put us all in. They’d need someone the Northerners would love, who they would follow. Your name came up and—”

“Then they’re bloody fools,” Robb spat, shaking his head and easing himself down into his threadbare armchair. “I’m a laughingstock.”

“That’s only in your head, Robb. I swear it. No one’s laughing at you. No one worth worrying over at least.”

Jeyne’s words were always so nice and so hopeful, and he was always so desperate to believe them, to cling to them instead of the dark thoughts that plagued his mind and threatened to drag him under. But how was he really supposed to believe that there was anyone who respected him anymore? How could he lead the entire Northern District when he couldn’t even lead his own family? “It was good of you to stop by, Jeyne,” he said softly, hoping she would catch the hint. “Again, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done."

Jeyne frowned and moved toward him like she wanted to touch him but ended up rolling back on her heels instead. “I just thought—I thought you should be prepared, is all. They won’t risk coming here to see you themselves, not with Mayor Bolton constantly watching them. I thought that—that maybe they saw me and wanted me to hear them and tell you, so you would be ready when the time comes. I just thought you should know. Perhaps it was a silly notion.”

Robb said nothing, only looked down at the floor and wished she would leave.

He heard rustling and breathed a small sigh of relief when he realized she was putting on her jacket. “I didn’t—I hope I didn’t…” Her voice trailed off. It was silent between them for a moment and then he felt her hand wrap around his and press something into his palm.

When he looked down, he saw five coins there, the most money he had had at one time since his father was captured. _Gods, I can’t accept this._

“I know what you’re thinking, and I know what you’re going to say,” she said before he could open his mouth or shove the coins back at her. “And I don’t want to hear it, all right? My parents will never notice, and I can’t stand how thin you’ve become. Just take it and don’t argue with me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Something caught in his throat, something that might have been a sob had he not quickly swallowed it back down. He only nodded, afraid his voice would betray him if he spoke.

He felt her hand run through his hair and had to will himself not to flinch at the thought of her feeling the grease and dirt that now matted down his auburn curls. “Eat for them,” she whispered in his ear. “I know it makes you feel guilty, but they need you, and you need to eat.” She took a deep breath. “And thank you for letting me help you.”

Before he could tell her just how absurd it was for _her_ to be thanking _him_ , she pulled her hand away and disappeared through the front door. He watched her go from the window, her clean brown hair gleaming in the early morning sun.

 

* * *

 

It had been a difficult trek to the Cornucopia but a shorter one than she expected. After only a few moments of walking, the snow had melted into the ground, leaving a far more manageable terrain in front of her. Shortly after that, a tiny parcel had fallen from the sky with just enough ointment and a bandage for her arrow wound. This new luck brought her no joy, because she knew it wasn’t luck at all. _They need me to get to the Cornucopia in time,_ she thought, as she wrapped the bandage around her thigh. _They need me to get there, so the Capital can watch Ramsay Bolton slit my throat._

But she accepted the gifts and kept moving all the same. The ointment worked astoundingly fast and soon she was even able to jog forward. The jogging proved a good distraction. It allowed her to focus on the sound of her breathing and the heavy fall of her feet against the wet ground instead of worrying about Willas or what was waiting for her ahead.

The arena was dark by the time she arrived. It was hard to tell if she was even in the right place at first, until a dozen harsh lights snapped on in the sky above them. The lights revealed a large, blackened shell she knew was once the Cornucopia and a long table adorned with backpacks of varying sizes in front of it. The backpacks each had a pair of initials sewn on them. Her eyes focused in on the bag with her own initials along with Willas’s embroidered on the front. But when she squinted her eyes for a better look she realized the ground around the Cornucopia had been scorched and was littered with the twisted remains of what were once supplies. _What in the seven hells happened here?_

As she pondered that question, another tribute suddenly darted out from behind some trees not too far from the bushes she was crouching behind. It sent her staggering back on to her backside, and she groaned when she realized from the figure’s long, blonde hair that it was Catelyn Bracken. In an instance, the girl had vanished back into the darkness with one of the bags hanging from her shoulder. _Why the hell didn’t I think of that? I should have run while everyone else was considering his or her next move._ But it seemed the girl who bore her mother’s name would always be one step ahead of her.

Sansa made to stand again when two more tributes dashed across her view. She recognized them both immediately, Walder Frey and Ramsay Bolton, both with gleaming weapons in their hands. They sprinted away from her and the Cornucopia in the direction Cat had gone. Though her heart was beating violently in her chest at the sight of him, it was at least a relief to know she wasn’t the target Ramsay was most fixated on at the moment.

Fear gripped her the moment she got back to her feet, leaving her paralyzed where she stood. She wished someone, anyone had been with her to snap her out of it, to remind her that if she didn’t get this backpack to Willas soon he could die and then she would die along with him. She wished there was someone to tell her to be brave.

_People do a lot of truly stupid things in the name of bravery, Sansa_. Petyr’s smooth voice echoed in her ears, and she could almost envision his gray-green eyes staring back at her. _Sometimes it is best to know when to give up, when to roll over and accept defeat rather than fight a losing battle in the name of bravery. But it is not a bad quality to have. You have it, just like your mother did. There will come a day when you have no choice but to fight, and you’ll be thankful for it then._

Today was that day. Today was the day Petyr had spoken of, the day she had no choice but to fight. Pretty smiles and sweet words wouldn’t save her this time. She needed to be brave, just as her mother had been. With that thought in her mind, she took the first step forward and then another step and another and another until she was sprinting to the table and the backpack that could save hers and Willas’s lives.

When her hand wrapped around the cloth strap, and she slung it over her shoulder, she was shocked to look up and find no one coming toward her. For one wonderful, fleeting moment she thought, _I won’t have to fight. I can take the bag and run._ But just as she made to turn back to the relative safety of the dark woods, a loud, agonized wail assaulted her ears and left her frozen in place once more. Her eyes darted about, frantically searching for the source of the scream, but she still saw no one coming toward her.

It wasn’t until the second cry rang out that she realized it was coming from behind her, from the Cornucopia. What she found there, chained to a post that had been stuck into the ground, brought her to her knees, and the vomit spewed from her mouth before she could stop it.

“Please,” he whispered to her, pushing against the chain wrapped around his neck. “Please, _please_ …”

The boy was on his knees and covered from head to toe in a sickening mixture of mud and crusted blood. The hands he reached out toward her were black and blue from the cold and missing fingers. Violent purple bruises and festering gashes marred his entire body, rendering him nearly unrecognizable. If not for the missing the leg, she isn’t sure she would have been able to remember him at all.

“Devan? Devan Seaworth?” she spoke, unable to stop the sob from escaping her lips. “Devan, is that you?”

A gruesome smile stretched across the boy’s swollen face, revealing that at least half his teeth had been knocked out. “Yes, my name—that was my name. Devan. My name is Devan. And you’re the lucky one, the Northern girl. Kissed by fire. I remember you.”

“Sansa,” she said softly. “Sansa Stark.”

“Yes, Sansa Stark, that’s right, that’s your name. The rebel’s daughter. Yes, everyone knew who you were,” he said, nodding enthusiastically, causing the chain to rattle. “Sansa, I need you to—I need— _please_.”

_What does he want from me?_ Even if she freed him from the chain, she’s not sure what good it would do him. There was no way she was strong enough to carry him away from here, and there was no way he could walk himself out in his condition. “What—what do you want me to do, Devan?” she asked, as she moved cautiously toward him. At that moment, she forgot where she was, forgot that she was standing under bright lights in the center of the arena for anyone to see and remove from the game. But the only thing she could concentrate on was the tortured Storm District boy and giving him whatever he needed.

“Mercy,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Mercy, _please._ ”

She inched nearer and nearer to him until she was close enough to press her palm to one of his bloodied cheeks. He leaned into the touch, just like a stray cat Sansa fed back in the Northern District used to do whenever she ran her fingers through his fur. “I—I don’t think I can save you,” she confessed. “I want to, but I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

When his dark, bloodshot eyes shot up and locked with her own she felt a chill shoot down her spine, leaving the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. “I can’t—I can’t go back to him. I can’t, Sansa. Please. _Please_. Don’t make me. He’ll come back. He always comes back. _Please_.”

It was then she finally understood what he was begging of her, and the idea of it made her feel like she might vomit for a second time. “No,” she muttered. “No, Devan, I just—I can’t. I don’t think I can do that.”

“ _Please_ , Sansa,” he cried, as his mangled hands grasped her just above the knees. “Please, I can’t—I can’t bear it any longer. He’ll come back, and he’ll—he’ll make me—I can’t do it anymore. Please, Sansa. Please. Just do it. It will be a mercy.”

With a trembling hand, Sansa reluctantly grasped one of the silver daggers tucked into her belt. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “You didn’t deserve this. No one deserves this.”

“Thank you,” he offered in response, grinning up at her. “Thank you for saving me. You have the most beautiful eyes. I’m glad I got to see them.”

“Thank you,” she sniffed, trying and failing to hold back her tears. She pressed the blade against his neck, just above where the chain was resting, and hesitated. “Is this okay? Or would you prefer—?”

He just kept smiling at her and looking straight into her eyes. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Make it a clean cut though, okay? And—and tell my father it’s okay. Tell him I knew my name, okay? Just tell him that. Will you tell him that?”

_If I get out of here alive._ “Of course I will, Devan.”

“Yes, Devan, that’s right,” he whispered before closing his eyes. He leaned forward, pressing his neck against the dagger’s edge. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She wanted to close her own eyes while she did this, wanted to pretend she was somewhere else far away from here while she dragged the blade across his throat. But she couldn’t risk making a messy cut and causing him even more pain, so she looked down at him without blinking. She looked down at the twisted mess of a creature Ramsay had created out of the kind young man Sansa remembered from the interviews. “You’ll be safe now, Devan,” she assured him, “You’re going somewhere safe.” With that, she slashed his neck, allowing the fresh blood to spill out over her hands. There was no choking or gagging, and she hoped that meant she had done it right, that he would die quickly, but before she could reach out to check his pulse a hard whack to her head sent her to the ground.

“Not the brightest, are you?”

Sansa could barely hear the question over the ringing in her ears. She pressed her hand to where she had been struck, but when she pulled it away she couldn’t tell if it was her blood or Devan’s that coated her fingers.

“Standing out in the open like that without your partner, what did you expect to happen? Should’ve just grabbed your bag and run, lucky hair, instead of wasting your time with him,” her attacker sneered. “Looks like now I’ll have to kill you.”

Sansa dug her heels into muddy ground and tried to push her body away from the dark-haired girl now advancing on her with an ax in her hand. She was an unremarkable-looking girl, and it took Sansa a moment to remember who she was. _The female twin from the Iron District._ Sansa had pitied the Goodbrother twins for being thrown into the arena with their own blood, just as she feared she might be with Robb, but now all she could think of was killing the girl before she could kill her.

“I never hated you, you know, for chirping back whatever the Capital wanted to hear like some stupid, sweet little bird. A lot of them did, but I thought it was all rather clever. Guess you stopped being clever.”

There was a cruel twist to the girl’s mouth, but Sansa had a feeling it was just for show. If she really wanted to kill Sansa, she would have done it already instead of talking to her like this. _She’s stalling. She doesn’t want to hurt me._ “I needed to help him,” she said, hoping to distract the girl from swinging that ax into her skull just yet. “I couldn’t leave until I helped him. Did you see what Bolton did to him? Torturing him and chaining him to that post like some kind of horrible trophy.”

“More like a warning,” the Iron District girl hissed. When she positioned herself over Sansa’s body, Sansa shot up and went to toss her dagger, but the girl’s foot quickly stomped her hand back into the mud. “Oh no you don’t.”

The girl with the cruel mouth lifted the ax over her head, readying herself to deal the fatal blow. Part of Sansa knew she was about to die and that she ought to scream or try to push herself away, so at least the people who loved her could proudly declare she fought for her life until the very end, but the only thing she could focus on in that moment was the beautiful way the lights above them reflected off the metallic blade of the ax. Reluctantly, she closed her eyes to the gleam and silently prayed the strike would at least kill her instantly.

But the strike never came. She heard a sharp gasp, and it took a few breaths for her to grasp that it wasn’t her own. She opened her eyes and was stunned to find the girl still standing above her but now with a long spear sticking out from her side. The ax fell from her limp hand, the blade barely missing Sansa’s head when it lodged itself into the ground. This time Sansa forced herself to react more quickly, and she scrambled back to her feet, just as the girl crumpled in on herself.

“You’ll want to run now.”

She spun around to see Harry Hardyng walking toward her, a crooked smile on his face. Immediately, she thrust her dagger out in front of her and started to back away.

“Relax, Stark,” he chuckled, as he pulled the spear out of the girl’s body. “I killed her partner too, so don’t worry yourself about him. If you’re here, I’ll assume the Tyrell boy is still alive. You’ll want to run back if that’s case, and run fast, he won’t be for much longer.”

Sansa felt her mouth fall open. One word kept ringing through her mind and resting on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask it— _Why?_

“Well, I guess I’ll be going now,” he continued, as if they were having a pleasant chat about the weather or something equally mundane. “I’ll be taking Edric and Brienne’s bag too, if you don’t mind. And, well, I don’t really care if you do mind. I think I earned it after that asshole nearly killed me.”

She wondered if he wanted her to respond in some way, to thank him for not driving his spear into her side as well. Instead, she only continued to gape at him.

“Not much of a conversationalist, are you, Stark?” he laughed, as he slung the bag over his shoulder. “I have a partner to meet up with. I’m sure she’s shaken Ramsay and his goon by now. Just know that this is a one-time thing, Stark. If we meet again, well, you know well enough how this goes.”

Sansa felt herself nodding, even though she had absolutely no notion of what was happening. Harry didn’t explain himself, only winked at her and then took off running the same way as Catelyn, Ramsay, and Walder. She knew it was time for her to run as well, that Willas needed her, and she took off in the opposite direction.

She never wanted to stop running, not until she was with Willas and Brienne again, but a deep, undeniably angry voice stopped her dead in her tracks before she got far at all. Unable to stifle her curiosity, she knelt down behind the bushes again and watched as Ramsay Bolton walked back toward the Cornucopia with Walder Frey and Valena Toland at his heels.

“You fucked it all up!” Ramsay roared. “We finally had that bitch where we wanted her, and you let her fucking slip right through your fucking fingers! We had a plan, Frey. We can’t just let those bastards get away with setting fire to our food supply, but then _you_ let her get away without a scratch. She’s probably laughing at us with Hardyng from some tree as we speak.”

“Ramsay, please—”

“You let the rotten bitch that—that fucking _maimed_ me with one of her bloody traps get away from you,” Ramsay sneered. “Did you do it on purpose, Frey? Were you hoping if you let her go she’d come back and finish me off?”

Sansa glanced down and realized that Ramsay was walking with a limp, his ankle wrapped up with a blood-soaked bandage. She looked back up to see a panicked Walder shaking his head. “Of course not. How could you even say that? We’re _allies_. I wanted to get her just as badly as you did. But she moved so damned fast. Even with the wounded leg. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.”

Ramsay grumbled something that Sansa couldn’t make out and turned away from Valena and Walder. He began to walk back to the Cornucopia, but his movements ceased when his eyes seemed to catch sight of Devan Seaworth, now lying motionless on the ground, blood pooling around his head.

“What the fuck happened here?” he screamed. “What the fuck happened? Toland, you were supposed to be guarding. What did I tell you? What did I say would happen if anything happened to my Reek?”

Valena started to carefully back away from him. “I was guarding just like you told me to, but I caught the Lannister boy trying to get in. He spotted me and took off. I chased after him, and I killed him. His partner won’t last long without him, so that’s two more tributes you don’t have to deal with because of _me_. That’s more than you can say. You should be thanking me!”

“Did I ask you to kill the Lannister boy?” Ramsay asked, his voice disturbingly calm, as he stalked toward her.

“No,” Valena whispered.

“Did I ask you to guard the bags and my Reek?”

Valena paused this time but eventually answered, “Yes.”

“So you failed to follow my orders, didn’t you?” Ramsay was only an arm’s length away from her when he asked the last question. Instead of answering, Valena turned away and moved to run, but Ramsay caught her by the hair and pulled her back. “You failed to follow my orders, _didn’t you_?”

“Ramsay, come on, she didn’t mean any harm,” Walder said gently. “Seaworth wasn’t going to last much longer anyways. Let her go.”

“ _Reek_ ,” Ramsay snapped. “And you let him die, didn’t you? Because you couldn’t just fucking follow orders.”

“Ramsay, plea—”

Valena Toland never had a chance to finish the plea. Ramsay’s large hands suddenly wrapped around her neck and twisted with a _crack_ that seemed to reverberate across the arena. The sound made Sansa gag, and she had to look away.

“Shit, Ramsay, you didn’t—did you—?”

A second _crack_ told her that Walder had met the same horrific fate as his partner. She knew she should run before he found her and killed her as well, but she couldn’t stop herself from looking up again. Her stomach clenched when she didn’t see Ramsay right away, but she caught sight of the back of his head just as he disappeared into the Cornucopia and the lights above them turned off, signaling the end of the feast.

A whimper, barely loud enough for her to hear, came the moment he was out of sight. There was no doubt in Sansa’s mind that the cry belonged to the young girl from the Reach and Ramsay’s partner, Alysanne Bulwer. _Why didn’t she call out to me when she had the chance? She must have heard me speaking with Devan. Why didn’t she call out?_ The idea of the girl chained up the same way as Devan and at the mercy of Ramsay Bolton infuriated her nearly as much as it disgusted her. She knew the girl must have still been alive since Ramsay remained mostly uninjured, but she never let herself imagine this. _Why didn’t you call out to me, Alysanne? I would have helped you too._

She was tempted to run back to the Cornucopia. Ramsay wouldn’t be expecting her. If she moved quietly enough, maybe she could even catch him off guard and plunge her dagger into his neck before he had any idea she was there. But she remembered that Ramsay Bolton was a hunter and a skilled one at that. Though she moved quietly enough, she had little hope of sneaking up on him. _Willas needs you. Willas needs this bag, and he needs you to survive._ That thought convinced her to turn away, and she began her journey back to the others, hating herself more than a little for abandoning an innocent child who needed her.

 

* * *

 

The sun was beginning to rise over the stadium again by the time Sansa spotted Brienne’s blonde head in the distance. It felt like her legs might give out at any moment, but she still found herself sprinting up the hill toward them. The cruelty she witnessed at Ramsay’s hands, her near-death experience with the Iron District girl, and Harry’s strange decision to spare her life all faded away. The only thought she had was _Willas, Willas, Willas_. She needed to save Willas.

“How is he?” she panted to Brienne, as she dropped to her knees by his side. They had propped him up against a tree and draped the blankets over him. When she pulled away the blanket, she winced at the sight of the wounds.

“I don’t know,” Brienne admitted. “He’s been in and out since you left. And we didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s not good,” she heard Edric add.

“Help me,” she snapped while practically ripping open the backpack. Inside she found more of the same ointment she had been gifted with earlier, bandages, a needle and thread, and a single, bright purple pill. The first thing she did was press the pill to his tongue and gently stroke his throat, urging him to swallow. She tried not to focus on how hot his skin felt or the greenish hue it had taken on. When the pill went down, she squeezed some of the ointment into her palm and began to rub it into the gashes on his knee. Almost instantaneously, the skin looked less angry and pus oozed out. When she felt the wound was sufficiently clean, she tossed the rest to Brienne who started working on slash across his gut without question.

“Those cuts will need to be stitched up,” Edric said, from where he was sitting on a nearby boulder. “Can you do it?”

She and Arya’s tutor growing up, Miss Mordane, had always said Sansa’s stitches were the neatest she’d ever seen. _It can’t be that different from your embroidery_ , she told herself, trying to ignore the nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach. The first puncture of the needle into Willas’s skin was a sickening sight, but she had no choice except to keep going. Her fingertips were numb and her knuckles ached by the time she sealed up the last gash. She looked up to Edric then, anxious for his approval and to hear she had done well. “Will these do?” she asked weakly. “Did I do okay?”

Edric’s violet eyes regarded her sadly. “They’re some of the straightest stitches I’ve seen, Sansa,” he said softly. “I think he’ll be okay.”

“What about his gut?”

“It’s not deep enough to need stitches, I don’t think. The ointment seems to be doing enough,” Edric said. “Just wrap it up with one of the bandages.”

Sansa did just that and then leaned over Willas to brush the sweaty curls clinging to his forehead out of his eyes. Color had returned to his cheeks, and his skin felt cooler under her hands. “You’re going to be fine,” she whispered. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Sansa?” he mumbled without opening his eyes. “Sansa, is that you?”

“It’s me. I’m here.”

“I wanted to say goodbye. I wanted to say—”

“ _Shh_ ,” Sansa interrupted, pressing her finger to his lips. “The medicine is going to help. You’re going to be just fine. So no goodbyes, okay? Just go back to sleep. Don’t worry about a thing, and go back to sleep.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” he sighed, gripping the hand she had pressed against his chest. “Don’t leave me again.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. “Just go back to sleep.”

It didn’t take him long to fall back asleep, his mouth hanging open and drool dribbling down his chin. _He looks sweet like this_ , she thought, running a fingertip over his eyebrow and down his cheek.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” she said to Brienne and Edric. “I tried to get your bag as well, but I—I couldn’t.”

“We never expected you to,” Brienne said, as she rested her hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “You should get some sleep too, you know. You look awful.”

Sansa shook her head. “No, I need—I need to make sure nothing happens to him. He needs to sleep, and I—”

“We’ll watch over you both, Sansa,” Brienne assured her. “You’ve been going for too long, and you need rest. You can trust us. You saved my life, and I’m not about to let anything happen to you.”

Sansa tore her eyes away from Willas and looked up into Brienne’s sapphire blue eyes. “Thank you so much,” she whispered, tears streaking down her face. “For everything. Thank you so much, Brienne.”

Brienne smiled and then wrapped one of the blankets around Sansa’s shoulders. “I owe you. Now get some sleep. You’re safe here.”

_Safe._ As Sansa rested her head against Willas’s chest and drifted off to sleep, she tried to remember the last time she had truly felt safe. It must have been before Father left and Mother was taken away, but she couldn’t recall.

She searched her mind for the moment, but she was pulled back to the day she and Robb were brought to the Capital to watch their father’s execution instead. A Capital strike plane had arrived to take them away. It was the first time she had ever flown, and she couldn’t stop shaking the entire trip. Robb had wrapped his arms around her when the plane took off and promised that she would be safe with him, that he would never let anything happen to her and that it would all be okay. She remembered wanting to believe him, but she didn’t feel safe, and she couldn’t convince herself it would all be okay.

But she hadn’t allowed herself to give up yet. Even then, after all she had seen, she still allowed herself to believe the President might show her family mercy. The moment the plane touched down, she and Robb were escorted into the finest room Sansa had ever seen. The walls were trimmed with gold, and the President was seated on an exquisite chair made of red velvet. Robb remained stiff and silent and stoic, but Sansa had instantly fallen to her knees at the sight of him and pleaded shamelessly for mercy to be shown to her father.

President Viserys Targaryen stood from his magnificent chair and clasped her hand in his to bring her up from her knees. He smiled at her then, and she offered him her own shaky smile in return, praying the gesture was not intended to mock her. “What a passionate speech,” he had said sweetly. “Beautifully done. Don’t you think so, Daenerys? Beautiful, really. You have moved me, Miss Stark. Yes, I believe tomorrow will be my finest act of mercy. One that will be remembered forever.”

Even when they pressed her father’s head down on the stone and even when a masked man walked out on to the platform with an ax in his hand, she clung to the hope that the President meant what he said. Instead, he ordered the masked man to lift his ax and announced that the murder was an act of mercy, that traitors wanted to die for their sins, and he would kindly grant her father that wish.

He had wanted her to be shocked and cry out for him stop. He had wanted to watch her fall to her knees again and beg for mercy, she’s sure of that. But even as she watched the last bit of hope she had left shatter to pieces in front of her, she did not flinch and she did not cry and she did not scream. She held Robb’s hand and watched her father’s death without seeing. She refused to give Viserys Targaryen what he wanted in exchange for his great mercy.

Sometimes, in the secrecy of her dreams, she liked to imagine meeting President Targaryen again. And in those dreams, she always offered him the same mercy.


	14. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The books balanced in his arms tumbled to the floor with a series of thuds. It was her voice; he’d know it anywhere. There was a musical quality to it, a sweetness that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine even when her words were destroying his entire world. That voice, those words—they have haunted him relentlessly since the day they were spoken, a ghost it seemed he might never be free of.

“You’re hovering again.”

Jon flinched at that. Gendry was giving him a pointed look with his arms crossed in front of his chest. _Was not_ , he wanted to argue, but he didn’t know how to explain to Gendry that his mind had really just been hundreds of miles away from the Resistance compound, lingering in the narrow halls and warm rooms of a house that now belonged to Roose Bolton, with the siblings he hadn’t seen in years.

“Just making sure you’re staying on schedule, Waters.”

Gendry scowled and made a rather threatening gesture with his screwdriver. “Well, I pray you find my work satisfactory,” he mocked, dipping briefly into a ridiculous little bow. “Now, why don’t you get out of my way and go report to Rayder that I’m doing just fine finishing up Ghost without you monitoring me.”

“ _Ghost_?” Jon snorted. “What happened to Betha? You decided to name your precious ship after my dog?”

“Are you mad? I didn’t name my beautiful, expertly crafted masterpiece of a ship after your _dog_ ,” Gendry grumbled, waving Jon off. “Your dog’s name just, you know, gave me the idea. We’ll have to be ghosts in the Capital, right? In and out, hopefully without anyone ever knowing we were there at all. We’ll have to blend in, act like we’re one of them, like we belong there. Ghosts, you know? It’s a stupid name, isn’t it? Maybe your sister was right when she suggested I wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box.”

Jon felt a grin stretch across his face and shook his head. “I think it’s a great name, though I suppose I’m a bit biased toward it. And I wouldn’t take whatever Arya said to heart. I’m fairly certain _stupid_ was her first word. Gods, if you ever heard the way my sisters used to snipe at each other… _Stupid. Horseface._ All the damn day long. But those two love each other more than they’d ever care to admit.”

Gendry frowned and glanced over Jon’s shoulder, as if afraid someone might be listening in on the conversation. “She’s really worried about her, you know. Sansa. I haven’t seen any of the tapes, but apparently it’s—”

“It’s not going very well for her at the moment, no,” Jon finished for him, a familiar sinking feeling in his gut. “She and her partner nearly died yesterday, and he’s got the limp back now, certainly can’t run anymore, but she—she’s still alive, and that’s what matters. And she found herself a strong pair to ally with, at least. We’ll get her out of there. She just needs to hold on a bit longer. Sansa can do that. I know she can. She’s strong. She’s staying positive.” Jon was hoping the assurances would leave his lips sounding confident, like he knew anything about Sansa, like he could see anything behind those careful, almost blank expressions she always wore. He hoped Gendry would communicate his confidence to Arya, because every time Jon tried to bring up Sansa himself, Arya quickly thought up some excuse to bolt in the other direction. Now, he just hoped Gendry wouldn’t mention the conversation at all. It was obvious by the hitch in his voice he knew absolutely nothing about what was going through Sansa’s mind. He never was a very good liar.

“Arya told me you two weren’t close growing up.”

Jon’s stomach clenched and a heavy weight seemed to settle on his chest. Though he tried not to, he found himself thinking back on how Sansa used to always ask Robb to play her knight-in-shining-armor when they played her pretend games, on how she would sing sweet songs by Bran’s bedside at night and read him the stories they both loved so much, and on how she would gently brush out the knots in Rickon’s wild mop of hair. He remembered watching her cry on Robb’s shoulder when one of the boys at school was mean to her. He remembered the pair of them sitting in front of the fireplace, beautiful and exotic to the North with their matching copper hair and summer blue eyes in a way he and Arya would never be. They would sit silently across from each other, Robb sharpening his sword and Sansa reading one of her poetry books, comfortable even without saying a word, and he envied them.

There had been a time when Jon craved her gentle touches and sweet words. There had been a time when he wished that just once she’d ask him to be her knight-in-shining-armor or cry on his shoulder instead of Robb’s. He was never certain why it bothered him so much. He was close to the rest of his siblings, especially Arya, and he was sure he and Sansa had little if anything in common. But just once he would’ve liked to be on the receiving end of one those glowing, wide-eyed smiles of hers, the ones he suspected made Robb feel like some sort of hero straight out of a storybook. Arya had no use for heroes. Arya had been playing her own hero since Jon made her a wooden sword for her fifth birthday.

_You think she’s pretty, don’t you?_ He recalled the way Sansa had laughed and smiled at him that one day, the day he met Ygritte. _You ought to say hello and then when she tells you her name, tell her that it’s lovely. Girls like that, you know._

“You all right, Jon? I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s none of my business.”

Jon shook his head and tried to push those memories back into the dark corners of his mind. It would do him no good to start dwelling on the past, not when he had the chance to finally be Sansa’s hero, whether she liked it or not. “No, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad Arya is confiding in someone,” he sighed. “And she’s right, we weren’t close. But there’s no bad blood there. We were never unkind to each other or anything like that. Sansa just—she just followed her mother’s example for most things, and Robb and I—well, we were born around the same time, and—”

“I understand,” Gendry interrupted, clapping him on the shoulder. “You don’t need to explain it to me, man.”

Jon nodded, more than a little grateful not to have to elaborate. It was never easy to explain that the woman who was apparently worth breaking whatever vows Eddard Stark had made to Catelyn Tully during their clandestine, dangerous love affair was somehow also not worth ever telling Jon anything about.

“Well, yeah, thanks,” Jon said. “You’re doing good work here, Waters. I’ll let Mance know it’s all coming along on schedule. And I’ll be getting out of your hair now. I told Ygritte I’d meet up with her ten minutes ago.”

“Then I’d go before she skins you alive.”

Jon laughed and walked away from Gendry and his Ghost with a parting nod. Ygritte Wilde, the girl whose name Sansa suggested he compliment all those years ago, had no need for heroes either. It was one of the many things he loved about her.

When he entered the room the two of them shared, Ygritte fixed him with a harsh look that softened only moments later. “Oh, Jon, you look like you have all the worries of the world on your shoulders.”

“Sansa is struggling,” he said, closing the door behind him. “They smuggled another tape in. Her partner might be somewhat improved, but he can barely walk on his own. Bolton is on a mission to destroy her, and I worry it won’t be long until that Dayne boy turns on them no matter how hard the Storm District girl tries to stop it. Not to mention that Arya won’t talk to me about anything and that isn’t like her at all. She’s always confided in me, _always_ , but now she’s spending more and more time with that strange man from the Order, and I have no bloody idea what they want from her or what the hell kind of danger she plans on throwing herself into. And we haven’t heard from Sam in _weeks_ now _._ They could’ve found him out and strung him up by now, and I wouldn’t even—”

“We’d know,” Ygritte cut in. “We’d know if they hurt Sam, believe me. If you think that blond piece of shit could resist airing the execution of a Resistance spy for our benefit then you’ve lost your mind.”

“He could resist if he wanted to keep the Capital and the Districts in the dark about there actually _being_ a Resistance—”

“Then he’d just lie and call Sam a Reach District spy or something,” Ygritte argued. “We’d know. Trust me, Jon.”

Jon wished he could believe her, but he couldn’t stop hearing Sam’s small voice pleading with him to send someone else to the Capital in his place. _I’m a coward, Jon. I’m a fat, bloody coward. Please don’t make me go._ “I just—if something happens to him, it will be my fault, Ygritte. It’ll be on me.”

“You think everything is your fault, Jon,” she sighed. She moved forward and pressed her palm to his chest. “You’ve got a heart too big for your own good, you know that? Sam is fine, and he’ll stay fine. And your sisters will be fine too. Now, if you’ll stop your godsforsaken worrying for just a second, I’ve got something I need you to try on.” Ygritte reached behind her to grab a garment he hadn’t noticed was draped over their bed. The sight of the familiar uniform made his hands curl into fists.

“Do I really have to wear that?”

“To overcome your enemy, you must become your enemy,” Ygritte said, tossing the uniform at him. “Didn’t Mance say something ridiculous like that once? And, anyways, Val worked hard sewing that up for you, so damn right you have to wear it.”

“Remind me not to thank her.”

Ygritte rolled her eyes and landed a gentle punch on his shoulder. “Who knows? Maybe it will look good on you. It will be nice to see you in something other than black for once.”

Jon pouted his lips. “I thought you liked me in black?”

“Well, I prefer you in nothing at all.” There was an almost predatory glint her eyes as she spoke, and Jon felt a familiar fire begin to pool in his gut. She slipped her hands underneath his shirt and slowly dragged it up until he was bare before her. She moved her fingertips across the dark hair and ridges of his chest in a way that sent his heart racing. But when he reached out to grab her hips and toss her on to their bed, she agilely slipped away. “Oh, no you don’t,” she teased, a smirk on her soft lips, lips Jon couldn’t keep from staring at. “Not until you try the uniform on. Val needs to know if it fits.”

Jon groaned and reluctantly reached out for the mock Peacekeeper uniform, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was now straining painfully against his trousers. “You’re a cruel woman, you know that?” he grumbled, as he shimmied into the jumpsuit. “A cruel, vicious, unbearably sexy woman.”

Ygritte laughed and zipped up the back of the suit for him, trapping him inside the heavy white fabric he has always associated with the enemy. The Peacekeepers in the Northern District weren’t all so bad, but they were constant reminders that none of them were free, not really, and never would be.

“Fits like a glove!” Ygritte exclaimed. “Who would’ve thought _Val_ could sew, huh?” He tried to smile and think up some jape about Val’s surprising talent, but his dark thoughts must have been written plainly on his face, because Ygritte frowned when she moved to face him again. “It’s really bizarre, seeing you in one of these,” she said softly, fidgeting with the badge pressed on the front. “Remember when you thought it would be a good idea to punch that Peacekeeper who grabbed my ass? Gods, you’re lucky your father was the Mayor, or you would’ve paid dearly for that fine act of stupidity.”

“Act of stupidity? I was defending your honor!”

“Oh please, you were defending my ass, which is perfectly capable of defending itself, I’ll have you know,” Ygritte countered. Jon opened his mouth to argue, but Ygritte pressed a finger to his lips before he could say a word. “That was also the day I realized that despite your bloody honor and affinity for dark, dreadfully boring colors, I was hopelessly and obnoxiously in love with you.”

Jon felt his chest tighten and the sting of tears pushing against the back of his eyes. Moments like this were rare with Ygritte, but they never failed to punch him straight in the gut. He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around her. “You really ought to marry me, you know.”

Ygritte let out an annoyed _humph_ but made no move to pull away. “Still stuck on that, are you? We’re about to start a war. You’ve got other things to be worrying about.”

“After the war then. Marry me after the war.”

Ygritte pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes. “ _After_ the war, huh? That’s awfully optimistic of you.”

“We’ll win, and we’ll go back to the North, and—”

“You know nothing, Jon,” she whispered. “You know nothing of—”

“I know I love you,” he interrupted, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before she could tell him he was being foolish and running his fingers through her gloriously red curls. “And I know I want to marry you, even if you are a cruel, vicious—”

“Oh, stop it,” she laughed softly, reaching up to his cup his cheeks. “If we somehow survive this bloody war, which is long shot no matter what you say, then yes, fine, I guess I’ll marry you.” Jon knew he must have been beaming back at her, because he could see her fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes, huh?”

 

* * *

 

It was difficult to absorb any of the words on the page with the strange boy he once thought was named Pate but now was pretty sure wasn’t pacing in front of the door. His feet made no noise, but Sam could feel the impatient, nervous energy radiating from him, could picture the annoyed looks he was probably shooting at back of Sam’s head every time another minute went by in silence.

“So? What does it say then?”

“I’m still—”

“Oh, for gods’ sake, give it to me,” the boy snapped, ripping the book from Sam’s hands before he could protest.

They had stolen the thick, ancient tome from a locked box hidden beneath the Archmaster’s bed. Sam hadn’t asked how Pate managed to get his hands on the key to the man’s private chambers or the key to the mysterious box or what exactly he had done to the men who usually guarded the tower. He was sure he’d rather not know.

“It—it says—it says that a group of scholars from a Citadel in the Storm District region didn't agree with the rule of the Targaryens and started a rebellion,” Sam sputtered out. “It says they poisoned the points of a quiver of arrows with a yellow paste and gave them to a man who never missed. He shot one of the arrows into the eye of a Targaryen dragon and killed the beast. And then he did it again and again until there were only two beasts left alive in all Westeros. But the Targaryens fought back—”

“And they used those dragon to kill the man with the arrows and create the Districts and establish the Hunger Games to enslave Westeros for hundreds of years,” Pate finished, handing the book back to Sam. “As lovely a story as that is, does the book say anything about what poison they used? What was the yellow paste?”

“I’ll—I’ll have to—I’ll need more time to—”

“We don’t have more time,” Pate spat. He looked infuriated, but Sam couldn’t tell if it was him or the tale that had upset him. “Take tonight, and read the book from cover to cover until you can tell me how to make the poison that will finally kill that monster. You’re smart, right? That must be why they sent you, because you’re clearly not good for much else. Read that damned book, find the ingredients, and I’ll do the rest.”

“And by do the rest—?”

“I’m going to kill the dragon,” he declared. “I’m going to shoot an arrow into its eye, and then we’re going to start a war we might actually be able to win this time.”

Sam hugged the book close to his chest and desperately wished some of Pate’s confidence would rub off on him. “Is—is Pate your real name?”

“Is Cord your real name?”

“No, it’s—it’s Sam. Samwell Tarly. And yours is?”

Pate stared at him for a long moment, not saying a word. It wasn’t until Sam began to squirm under the intensity of that stare, he finally answered. “I’ve known many names. Pate is just as good as the rest, I suppose.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nodded, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to say. “Well, then Pate it is. And, um, if you don’t mind me asking… how do you plan on getting anywhere near the dragon? You realize it’s not only heavily guarded but—”

“You really have no imagination, do you?”

Sam scoffed and considered arguing that he had a perfectly fine imagination, that he just preferred to be realistic, when a soft knock came at the door. It was an unusual knock. _Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap._ The cadence repeated again and then for a third time without Pate moving an inch, leaving Sam torn between being terrified of who was on the other side of the door or just thoroughly confused.

But Pate didn’t seem to be either of those things. He calmly twisted the knob and allowed the knocker to slip inside after the fourth knock. Sam felt his mouth go dry at the sight of her. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her eyes were like the sea just before a storm and her hair was the color of a raven’s feathers. The gray silks all of the President’s personal servants wore were draped elegantly across her long body. All of the servants moved like ghosts across the President’s manor, noiseless with no one sparing them even a passing glance. Sam didn’t understand how anyone could ignore someone as spectacular as the woman in front of him.

“Do you have anything for me?”

The woman nodded her answer instead of speaking. Few of the men and women from the Districts who served the President still had tongues to speak, a discovery that had churned Sam’s stomach when he first arrived to the Capital. One of her delicate slipped beneath the silks and pulled a small scrap of paper from the folds.

Pate took the note and grasped her hand. “The Order thanks you for your service. It will be remembered.” The beautiful woman nodded again and then slipped back through the door just as quickly as she came.

“And who was that?”

Pate ignored the question in favor of reading the note. Sam tried to gauge his reaction to whatever words were written there, but his companion’s face betrayed nothing. “When I said you only had tonight, I wasn’t lying. We make our move tomorrow. Delaying it any longer than that is no longer an option.”

Bile rose up and pushed at the back of Sam’s throat, but he forced himself to swallow it down. “Tomorrow? Are you—?”

“Tomorrow,” Pate repeated firmly, his unsettlingly pale eyes locked with Sam’s. “Read the book. I’ll be here at dawn for the answer I need.” With that, Pate left just as the servant had, clicking the door of Sam’s chambers shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

_Please, Petyr. Please don’t do this. You should know better._

The books balanced in his arms tumbled to the floor with a series of thuds. It was _her_ voice; he’d know it anywhere. There was a musical quality to it, a sweetness that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine even when her words were destroying his entire world. That voice, those words—they have haunted him relentlessly since the day they were spoken, a ghost it seemed he might never be free of.

_You know I don’t see you that way._

Those words played through his mind during his worst moments, when he felt small and ignored and rejected. They have never failed to remind him that no matter how far he rises, he will still always be that orphaned boy from the Vale District who lived in a broken down hovel until the day he risked his life to win the heart of a girl who would never want him in return.

Those words played though his mind during his best moments as well, when he felt triumphant over the Crownlanders who dared to look down on him or underestimate him because he was born amongst stones and sheep instead of gold and glamour. They were always there to remind him that no matter how many times he won, he would still never win her.

_I’m married, Petyr. I care about you, but I love my husband. I love my Ned._

The voice sounded so close, like it was echoing off the walls of his apartments.

“Cat?” he croaked before he could stop himself, eyes glancing frantically around his rooms for any sign of her. It was madness to think the voice anything more than a memory. Cat had perished years ago now, not far from these very rooms, but that knowledge didn’t stop him from striding toward the source of the sound anyways.

When he turned the corner into his living room, he stopped dead in his tracks and felt like his breath had been suddenly knocked out of him. His television was on, playing the footage of the day he got down on one knee like a godsdamned fool, presented Cat with the mockingbird pin her daughter wore into the arena, and pleaded with her to leave Eddard Stark and be his wife instead. It was during one of the Hunger Games, that was the only time Catelyn was ever in the Capital with him instead of trapped in the frigid North with her solemn husband, but he hadn’t suspected the cameras were recording every moment of their conversation. He ought to have known better than to expect privacy while inside these walls. He ought to have known better than to open his heart up to her in the first place.

The footage had not been broadcasted since he began officially working for the Targaryen Administration many years ago. It had been years and years since anyone had seen it, and likely most had forgotten about the encounter entirely, but the humiliation of it still burned, still flared up in his chest and spread through his entire body, threatening to consume him, threatening to bring him down to his knees again. He wanted to grab the remote and throw it at the screen, shattering the glass and that memory along with it. He wanted to scream and curse Catelyn Tully and Ned Stark and whoever the hell thought to record him that day, but before he could even move to turn it off, Varys appeared in the corner of his eye.

“Gods, she was truly beautiful, wasn’t she?” The sickly sweet voice made his skin crawl. “It’s such a tragedy what happened to her. And you were a rather handsome young man. How old are you there, my dear friend?”

Petyr tried to force a smile on to his face, but he was afraid it looked far more like a grimace. “Seventeen. I was seventeen.” _Seventeen and an absolute idiot._

“Ah, well, we were all romantics at seventeen. Even you, apparently.”

_He doesn’t love you the way I do, Cat. No one could ever love you the way I do. Why can’t you see that?_

Petyr reached for the remote and turned the television off. It might have been a sign of weakness, but he simply couldn’t listen to another word. “Letting yourself into my apartments now I see. What is it you needed so badly?”

Varys had the gall to grin at him. “We’re partners, sweet Petyr. We need to trust each other. We play our games, but we’re honest with each other about them in the end. But now I fear you’re hiding something from me.”

_Not nearly as much as you’re probably hiding from me._ “If you were hoping to shake me with that little stunt then you’re an idiot. You think you’re the first person to throw that footage in my face? You think you’re the first person to mock me for it? I don’t have the patience or the time for any more of your bullshit, Varys, so tell me exactly what it is you want to know or get the hell out of my apartments.”

Varys pressed a hand over his heart in feigned distress. “I have never known you to be so hostile, my friend. I only came to inquire if you might know why Sansa Stark seems so intent on making her way to the edge of the arena. It seems an odd strategy, don’t you think? For the life of me, I can’t figure out what exactly it is she plans on doing once she gets there. You know the girl better than I do. Any ideas, Petyr?”

Sansa has done an admirable job trying to steer attention away from that particular goal of hers, but with that repulsive, enormous Storm District girl constantly questioning her, it isn’t surprising Varys has taken note of it. “I know nothing about her strategy,” he lied. “I doubt she has any plans at all. To me, it looks like she’s simply running away from that Bolton boy.”

“That’s a popular theory amongst the gamemakers. They think the girl a coward. But after her little display last night, I’m not so sure about that. Running into the Cornucopia and Ramsay’s turf to save her partner? That seems quite brave to me. I have a different idea about why she might be moving toward the edge. That maybe—”

“I really could not care less about your theories, Varys,” Petyr interrupted, wearying of the eunuch’s presence and wanting nothing more than pour himself a large glass of Arbor gold and try to drown out the sound of Cat’s voice in his ears. “Why are you worried about Sansa Stark? Shouldn’t you be worrying about your own tribute?”

“Ah, it was a silly theory anyways,” Varys sighed, sticking out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “An exciting one though. It involved you planning to betray the President himself. But you would not be so great a fool as to rebel against the Targaryens, would you, Petyr? Surely, you know better.”

_Please don’t do this. You should know better._

“I have no desire to give up my considerable comforts to go on the run as a rebel, cowering in dirty hideaways while I wait for the day the President finally finds me and cuts my head off or feeds me to his dragon,” Petyr answered. He opened his arms and motioned to the luxuries surrounding them—the lavish, rich velvets, the soft silks, the glimmering silvers and golds adorning his apartments. It was more than any orphan boy from the Vale District could have ever dreamed of. “I am not the fool I was at seventeen, Varys.”

“I’m not sure you were ever a fool, Petyr. If there was ever a woman worth the risk you took, it was Catelyn Tully. Ned Stark certainly thought so as well, to betray the Capital and get her pregnant.”

Petyr felt his jaw clench. He remembered Catelyn coming to him with that news, clutching her still flat stomach and declaring that she had fallen in love. “She was an extraordinary woman, yes,” he agreed. “Now, if you would—”

“The daughter has her look,” Varys interjected. “Sometimes I think she might be even more beautiful than her mother was at that age. Catelyn Tully was all summer and spring, but there’s some winter in the daughter, an icy quality to her eyes that’s hard to ignore. I can see why you took a liking to her, but it’s a shame she doesn’t have more of her mother in her. The look of course, but not much else from what I can see.”

Petyr wanted to disagree. He wanted to argue that even though Sansa might not have inherited much of Catelyn’s pragmatism or her grim determination or her taste for vengeance, running headfirst into danger to protect someone she cared for, as Sansa had done for the Tyrell boy, was exactly something Catelyn would have done. The delicate way Sansa tossed her pretty silver daggers reminded Petyr of Catelyn’s elegance with her bow and arrow, as if the weapon were an extension of herself. Sansa was more romantic than her mother, sweeter and more fragile with a tendency to ignore revenge in favor of mercy, but, lately, Petyr considered that might not be such a bad thing. The influence of Eddard Stark could be erased over time, and her romantic nature would only make her heart easier to sway. When he saved her life from the arena and made her the face of a revolution that would change the lives of the oppressed men and women of the Districts forever, there was no way she would be able to deny him as her mother did. There was no way she would be able to turn him away. He would be President, and she would be his wife, and he would finally have everything he deserved.

“A shame,” Petyr agreed instead. “Now, I think I will get some sleep, if you don’t mind. Only a few hours from now we’ll be expected back in the control room.”

“Ah, yes, I understand. I’ll let you get your rest. It seems you might need it.” Varys pressed his hands together and bowed his head slightly before gliding toward the front door, the hem of his purple robes dragging behind him.

When he heard the front door click shut, he let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding in and collapsed into the chair in front of the television. He turned the television back on and paused the screen on a close-up of Catelyn’s face. At 21-years-old, she looked radiant with her brilliant copper tresses twisted into a long braid, perhaps even more beautiful than she had been when Petyr first saw her. Her name was chosen for the Hunger Games on her seventeenth birthday. Petyr had only been thirteen-years-old as he watched her move toward the stage, still a child in many respects, but he knew instantly he was in love with her—in love with the way her summer blue eyes glared at the camera, in love with the way the sunlight gleamed from her hair, in love with how she never let them see her cry. He hardly slept during those games. Every moment he turned his eyes away from the television was agony. Every moment the camera was not focused on her was agony.

It came down to Catelyn and her ally Brandon in the end. Neither wanted to kill the other, but the Capital refused to allow them both to triumph. Catelyn finally let the tears she had been holding back since her name was called fall then, but somehow they only seemed to make her more beautiful. She cried and cried and begged Brandon to let it be she who fell, but when she turned away for just a moment, Brandon ate a handful of poisonous berries. The boy stepped shakily forward after, all of the color suddenly draining from his face, and whispered something Catelyn’s ear before the life faded from his gray eyes.

When Brandon Stark fell dead at Catelyn Tully’s feet, Petyr felt his heart soar. He knew in that moment he would volunteer himself as the Vale tribute at the next Reaping. He knew in that moment he would do anything to be near her. It didn’t matter what Brandon whispered in her ear before he collapsed, it didn’t matter how Catelyn clung to his body and begged him to come back to her even as the gamemakers dragged her away, because Brandon Stark was dead, and it was Petyr Baelish’s time to rise.

_He asked me to tell his family he loved them and that he was sorry. He said he loved me and asked me to take care of Ned._

Petyr resisted the urge to cover his ears, as if that could block out what she had confided in him, Brandon’s last words. The last words that had drove Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark together and ruined everything.

_I love my husband._

The liquor burned the back of his throat and made his head feel heavy. It was not often he indulged in anything more than wine.

_I love my Ned._

It wasn’t until she spoke those words he realized he truly had lost, that he had lost a long time ago. Petyr had made himself her best friend, insinuated himself into every part of her life and guarded her secrets all in the hope that one day she would see it was _him_ she was meant to be with. But when she looked down at his mockingbird pin, the one with the sapphires that matched her eyes just so, and voiced those words, he knew it would never be.

_You should know better_.

He should have known better. But she should have known better too. She should have known better than to assume that stubbornly stupid man she married would be able to keep her safe. She should have known better than to trust the man she rejected, the man who could have given her everything if she had only let him.

He might have aided the downfall, but it was the Starks who caused their own demise by not knowing better.

_You should know better._

The clear alcohol made his bones feel like water and his skin feel like it was on fire. He stumbled from the living room, the television still paused on Catelyn’s face, and sunk into the silk sheets of his bed, silk sheets that could have been hers. Without thinking, he reached into the bedside table and pulled out the scarf she had left in his rooms the last night he saw her alive. It was the same summer blue of her eyes and when Petyr wrapped it around his fist and held it by his lips, he could almost imagine her smell still clung to the cheap fabric.

_You should know better._

“ _You_ should have known better,” he whispered, before sleep took him.


	15. The Edge of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If there weren’t Districts, if there weren’t the Hunger Games every year, I think we all could have been friends, don’t you? We’re not the ugly ones. We’re not the murderers. They are.”

The light was impossibly bright, so bright it was nearly impossible to keep his eyes open, as much as he wanted to. He had been in the dark for too long, and he didn’t want to go back, so he forced his eyelids open and tried to discern where exactly he was.

“Willas? Willas, can you hear me?”

When she leaned over him, the light seemed to form a halo around her head. It illuminated all of the different colors in her hair—the magnificent blood reds and dark coppers and gleaming golds—in a way that made his breath catch in his throat. He couldn’t remember ever having seen a sight so lovely, and that was what convinced him he must be dreaming, or worse, dead, and she along with him.

“Is this—? Are you—? Where are we?”

Sansa pressed a hand to his cheek. The touch felt too solid and too warm to belong to a ghost or a memory. “We’re still in the arena, Willas,” she told him. “You’re still alive, though just barely. How are you feeling?”

It felt like his head was trapped in a vise. His chest felt heavy and his eyes burned and his limbs ached, but none of that could compare to the throbbing pain radiating from his left knee up to his groin. “Shit,” he groaned, trying to reach for the source of the agony. “What happened to my leg?” He winced when he tried to sit up to look at it, but Sansa gently pushed him back down before he could see anything.

“Your leg got caught in one of Catelyn’s traps, remember? We were walking with Brienne and Edric when—”

The moment came back to him abruptly. He remembered hearing the click of the trap as soon as he set his foot down, but it was already too late to move. It was too late to do anything but watch on helplessly as the spikes lifted from the snow and stabbed themselves into his knee, his _good_ knee. There had been blood everywhere, gushing into the snow and over his snowsuit and Brienne’s trembling hands. He isn’t sure how he managed to lose so much blood and still be breathing. “Sansa, I don’t—”

“Gods, Willas, I’m just so happy you’re alive,” she interrupted, tears clinging to her cheeks. Before he knew what was happening, her arms were wrapped around his neck and her lips were pressed against his own. The pain wracking his body melted away at the contact. The ache in his knee couldn’t compete with the softness of her lips or the feel of her fingers threaded through his hair or the way she still seemed to smell of lemons and sweet honey even after so many days in the arena.

It was a cautious kiss. The touch of her lips was feather light and her hands were gentle, as if she were afraid holding him too tightly would break him. The kiss was sweet, but he wanted more. He wanted to show her that Cat and Harry hadn’t broken him and that he could still protect her the way he promised he would that first night. When she made to pull away, he reached out to snake his arms around her waist and pull her body on top of his, not giving a damn how many people were probably watching.

There was far too much fabric between her and his hands, but as he pushed them down the length of her body, he thought he could almost feel the sharp contour of her waist and soft swell of her hips. A pretty little moan escaped her lips when he grasped those hips, digging his fingertips into the thick material of the snowsuit. That moan gave him the confidence he needed to finally part his lips and run his tongue over the outside of hers, and he couldn’t help but moan with her when she accepted it inside her mouth.

He wished desperately they could have been alone, that there was anywhere in the arena they could hide from the prying eyes of the Capital, even if only for a moment. If they were alone, he could have kissed her until they were breathless and exhausted. Maybe he even could have ripped the snowsuit from her body. The thought of her freckled, ivory skin bare before him and of kissing every inch of it that he could reach left him painfully hard and anxious to press closer to her. He found himself wondering what it would feel like to be inside her and surrender completely to the spell she seemed to have cast on him the first time he saw her face, when she emerged from the crowd of Northern District children, stood on stage next to Falyse Stokeworth, and became the girl with lucky hair, the girl who didn’t cry.

“Willas,” she breathed, when she broke the kiss. Her lips were swollen, and there was a violent blush on her cheeks. “I guess you’re feeling better then?”

He chuckled and ran his fingers over the ridges of her braid, still mesmerized by the colors that streaked through it. “You saved me, didn’t you?”

If it were possible, Sansa blushed even redder at that. “There was a feast of sorts at the Cornucopia, while you were still in and out,” she answered. “But instead of food there were backpacks with whatever each pair needed the most inside. There was medicine and stitches for you in ours and—”

“You went into the Cornucopia for me?” he exclaimed. “Sansa, what if Ramsay had—?”

“He didn’t,” she cut in. “He never even saw me."

“But still, what if—?”

“What _could have_ happened isn’t important, Willas, because it _didn’t_ happen,” she said firmly, pressing a finger over his mouth before he could voice the question. “I’m still alive, and you’re still alive. The rest doesn’t really matter, does it? There’s no use worrying over what ifs.”

He knew she was right, but the thought of her braving Ramsay’s turf on her own to save his life made his stomach twist in the strangest ways. He couldn’t tell if the feeling consuming him was anger and worry over her risking her life like that, or self-loathing for making that risk a necessary one for her take, or if he was just madly in love with this gentle, compassionate, unexpectedly daring young woman still wrapped in his arms.

“We had it all wrong, didn’t we?” he whispered.

“All wrong? What do you mean?”

“You saved me. It looks like _you_ are _my_ Florian.”

Sansa laughed softly and beamed back at him. “Real life is never quite like it is in the stories, is it?”

“Oh, would you two shut up already?” Willas sat straight up at the unfamiliar voice. Edric Dayne was cleaning his sword on a boulder not far from them with Brienne sitting at his side. “All your gushing is making me nauseous.” Though he sounded annoyed, Willas didn’t miss the small smile threatening to bloom on the Sand District boy’s face.

He was surprised to find that Dayne and Brienne Tarth were still with them. Even if they could have all been friends in another life, even if they had saved Brienne’s life, in the arena, he and Sansa were still undeniable obstacles in the way of them triumphing in these games. “Thank you,” Willas said to them, hoping his expression conveyed just how appreciative he was that they hadn’t abandoned him and Sansa in their time of need. “Thank you for not—thank you for everything you must’ve done.”

Edric only glanced at him briefly before looking back down at his sword. “It was good of you to help Brienne.”

“And together we’ll stand a better chance against Ramsay,” Brienne added, offering him a nervous smile. “Once you’ve healed up, of course.”

“I’m fine,” he lied, hoping that if he simply ignored the pain shooting from his knee, it eventually would go away. He met Sansa’s eyes, as he spoke his next words, “We should start moving toward the edge again, I think.”

She nodded slowly, but her face betrayed nothing. “Yes, we should,” she agreed. “And I don’t think Ramsay is our problem at the moment,” she added to Brienne. “His allies are both dead now. Not that he’s not dangerous on his own, of course, but without Walder and Valena—”

“They’re dead?” Edric asked, his brow furrowed. “Even Valena? How?”

“Ramsay killed them with his own hands,” Sansa spat, a look of disgust marring her lovely features. “I—I haven’t had a chance to tell them what happened in the Cornucopia yet,” she sighed to Willas, rubbing her temples. “Ramsay had—he had Devan Seaworth chained up. I’ve never seen anything more awful.” Tears glassed over her eyes, but she wiped them away with the back of her sleeve before any fell. “Ramsay had been torturing him, so when he—when he asked me to give him mercy, I couldn’t just leave him.”

The meaning of _mercy_ in this case wasn’t lost on Willas and made him feel sick. He couldn’t stop from picturing her crying, her face twisted with anguish, as she dragged one of her daggers over the boy’s throat. “Sansa, there was nothing else you could have done for him.”

“I know,” she sniffed. “But while I was with Devan, the girl from the Iron District attacked me. I wasn’t paying attention, and she snuck up on me. She would have killed me too, if Harry Hardyng hadn’t shown up.”

A familiar jealousy flared in his gut, making his hands clutch tighter to her and his jaw clench. He knew it was foolish because Sansa barely knew the Vale tribute and would probably have little interest in him after he humiliated her in front of the entire Capital, but he couldn’t forget that she had chosen Harry first.

“Harry, well, I’m not entirely sure what happened or _why_ it happened, but he killed the girl and then he just let me go.”

“Let you go?” Edric asked, his voice sounding nearly as incredulous as Willas felt. “You didn’t have to fight him?”

Sansa shook her head. “He didn’t even _try_ to hurt me, just told me to run and then warned me it would only be a one-time thing.”

“That makes no sense,” Willas said, almost certain she had somehow misremembered the encounter. “Did you have a weapon? Maybe he just didn’t want to risk fighting you? Or maybe he was worried about delaying when Ramsay could show up at any moment?”

Sansa shrugged but didn’t look convinced by his theories. “To be honest, I was a complete mess at that point, after—after killing Devan and almost dying… If Harry had wanted to kill me, I really doubt I could’ve stopped him, and I think he knew that. But he let me go anyways. He saved me and then he spared me.”

“It was probably guilt,” Brienne suggested. “We could all tell you two allied with each other before the interviews, but then Harry suddenly claims to want Catelyn Bracken as his partner? It was cruel what he did, and maybe he knows that. Maybe he wanted to make it up to you.”

“Or maybe he saw you give Devan Seaworth mercy and just couldn’t bear not doing the same,” Edric said so quietly that Willas could hardly make out the words. “You have an effect on people, Sansa, and I don’t think you realize it.”

Willas felt the jealousy spark in his gut again, even though he knew Edric was right. There was something about Sansa Stark, something gentle and good and innocent about her that made people want to protect her.

Edric’s comment made Sansa blush again, but she continued on with her story. “I ran away after that but then I heard Ramsay’s voice, and I hid behind some bushes to watch what was going on. He was enraged that Cat and Harry managed to outsmart him. I think Cat and Harry burned all of the supplies in the Cornucopia, and Ramsay’s leg was mangled by one of her traps just like Willas. They’re getting the better of him, and he can’t stand it. Then he noticed that Devan was dead and he just lost it. Apparently, he told Valena to guard him, but she chased after the Western District boy instead and when he—”

“When he saw it, he murdered Valena and Walder,” Edric finished for her. “He might be a strong, vicious brute, bur he’s an idiot. Killing his allies over _that._ He’s clearly not thinking straight or logic doesn’t stand a chance against his rage.”

“He likes to hurt people,” Sansa muttered. “It makes him _happy._ It doesn’t matter that they were his allies; he couldn’t resist hurting them eventually. They’re just lucky he didn’t decide to prolong it. But I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” she said, as she extricated herself from Willas’s arms and stood. “My point was that Ramsay isn’t the biggest threat at the moment. Cat and Harry are. They’re in their element in here. They’re deadly capable and once Ramsay is dead, we’ll be their primary targets. We need to be ready.”

“I’m not scared of them,” Edric declared, sheathing his sword. “Can you walk, Tyrell? We should get moving.”

Willas wasn’t sure if his newly disfigured leg could support him, but he knew he had to try. Sansa backed away from him and allowed Brienne and Edric to haul him up to his feet. The first step he took after they released him was sheer agony. It was a well-known agony though, one that reminded him of the useless leg he had been limping on for six years before Sansa, Theon Greyjoy, and Petyr Baelish showed up to fix it in the night. _Now I’m right back to where I started._ The realization stung more than he cared to admit.

His three companions were watching him warily. They were all on edge, ostensibly afraid they might need to catch him at any moment. “Stop looking at me like that,” he snapped, a little more harshly than he intended. “I’m fine. I’m not going to collapse.”

“Are you sure?” Sansa asked, her eyes flickering between his face and his heavily wrapped knee. “If you need more time, we can wait.”

 _We don’t have more time_ , he wanted to remind her, but he feared saying too much with the cameras watching them. He wished he had the freedom to tell her that his comfort was not worth jeopardizing the rebellion. “It hurts, but that’s nothing new,” he answered instead. “I’m no stranger to bad legs, Sansa. I’ll be fine to walk. I just can’t promise I’ll be quick about it.”

“Nothing wrong with slow and steady,” Edric said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And if you need help, let us know. There’s no shame in it.”

Willas wanted to argue there was a great deal of shame it but only nodded. “Yeah, thanks. Should we get moving then?”

“Are we sure about moving toward the edge?” Brienne asked. “Aren’t you worried we’ll be easier to pin that way?”

“The further we make Ramsay have to walk to find us, the worse shape he’ll be in by the time he does,” Sansa argued without hesitation. Willas wasn’t sure if she had thought up the justification beforehand or if harmless lies just tumbled that easily from her lips. “Plus, I think it’s as good a goal as any, don’t you? Where else would we go?”

Edric smirked. “You make a good point, Stark.”

The trek to the edge of the arena caused Willas more pain than he could ever remember having experienced before. Each step he took made his skin feel like it was on fire, and sometimes he thought he could hear the bones in his knee scraping against each other. He tried to focus on the swinging of Sansa’s braid in front of him to distract from the pain. Staring at it and remembering the way the light had made it shine was the only thing that kept the pain from consuming and reducing him to a sobbing, vomiting mess that needed to be carried instead walking on his own two feet. The last thing he wanted was for Sansa to see him like that and realize she deserved more than he could ever give her.

Edric led the way, tossing stones in front of him after every couple of steps. It made for slow progress, but Sansa and Brienne were both concerned about what would happen if one of them accidentally walked into the edge. Willas was thankful for the unhurried pace. If they had been moving any faster, he was sure he couldn’t have kept up.

When Edric finally threw a stone that sparked and shot back at them, Willas collapsed to the ground and started gagging despite himself.

“Gods, Willas, are you all right?”

“Fine. I’m fine,” he gasped, as Sansa dropped to her knees in front of him. He clutched his swollen leg and rested back on the ground. “We’re finally here, aren’t we? We can stop?”

Sansa nodded and brushed back some of the damp curls from his face. “You should have said something earlier,” she scolded, hands hovering anxiously around his knee. “But yes, we’re here. We’ve reached the edge of the world.”

Just then, music began to play. It was the song for the fallen tributes, but before Willas could look up at their faces, Sansa pushed her cheek against his and whispered into his ear, “Now all we have to do is stay alive and wait for the signal to come. He’ll come for us then, and we’ll all get out of here okay.”

It was a long night after that. Even the feel of Sansa’s body tucked into his own wasn’t enough to completely divert his attention from his injuries. By the time the sun appeared in the sky, Willas doubted he had gotten more than an hour’s sleep. But it felt good to have finally reached their destination and to know they would be doing no more walking for a time at least. They just needed to hold their ground for a while longer and wait for Petyr Baelish to let them know it was time.

When he lifted his head, he found Sansa had gotten up and was sitting nearby, flinging her last two daggers at the tree in front of her. They stuck perfectly into the trunk, only inches away from each other. “You almost make that look dainty, you know,” Edric teased, as he appeared from the thick trees with a bundle of wood in his arms.

“Well, I have always been the consummate lady,” Sansa laughed, as she tugged the daggers free and prepared to throw them again. “I didn’t want to learn a weapon at all actually, but my parents didn’t give me much of a choice. They told me I had to learn to protect myself and then my mother gave me a lovely set of silver daggers like these, except they had roses carved into the hilts. It was the only way she could get me to practice when I first started.”

Edric snorted. “You’re rather strange, you know that, Stark?”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment,” she answered, before landing the blades flawlessly in the tree for a second time. “I just wanted the daggers to pretty. I wanted everything to be pretty back then. Sometimes I still do. Plus, I didn’t think boys would like me if I were better at throwing daggers than them.”

“Well, I can happily confirm that’s not the case,” Willas said.

Edric rolled his eyes, but Sansa turned her head to smile at him. “I loved a girl before I came here,” Edric confessed. “And she was better with a sword than I’ll ever be.”

“That’s sweet,” Sansa sighed. “What about you, Brienne? Is there someone waiting for you back in Tarth?”

Brienne blushed and appeared to be trying to hide her face behind her short, straw blonde hair. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never—there was never—I’ve never had anyone feel that way about me, I guess. I thought someone cared for me once, but it turned out he was only playing a jape on me.”

Sansa gasped and looked back at Brienne with wide eyes. “A jape? That’s so cruel.”

“Perhaps, but it’s over now, and I try not to think about it,” Brienne said, shrugging. “I didn’t really care for him anyways.”

“But there _is_ someone you care for, right?” Sansa asked, leaning closer to her. There was a sly grin on her face. “I can tell.”

“Well, I—I—I’m not sure about that,” Brienne sputtered out. “But I did always find, well, I think—my mentor, Renly, he’s rather handsome, isn’t he?”

Sansa nodded her agreement a little too enthusiastically for Willas’s taste. “Oh yes, very handsome. His eyes are like a night sky.”

Brienne grinned openly, revealing a set of white but crooked teeth. “They are, aren’t they? I like to think that maybe I’ll see him again someday. I think he’d be proud of me for coming this far. He told me he knew I had it in me to win. No one has ever said something like that to me before and actually meant it. I wasn’t sure if it was the truth, but I’m still alive, right? So he must have been right. We’re all still alive, and that’s something.”

“It’s definitely something,” Sansa agreed. “When Falyse Stokeworth called my name, I was terrified I wouldn’t even survive the first day in here.” She paused for a moment and seemed to consider something. “But I think part of me was also terrified I _would_ survive.”

“Terrified of surviving? Why?” Edric asked.

Willas knew what Sansa would say before the words left her lips. “I didn’t want them to change me. I wanted to die as myself, you know? I didn’t want to let the Capital make me hate you or Catelyn Bracken or Harry Hardyng or anyone. They were the ones that put us here and forced us to kill each other.” As she spoke, Willas noticed the hand in her lap move into a strange shape. She crossed her thumb and smallest finger across her palm while her three center fingers remained straight and pointing toward the sky. The symbol she was making seemed vaguely familiar, like he might have seen it on television before. But before he could ask what it meant, her hand relaxed, and he wondered if he had only imagined it. “If there weren’t Districts, if there weren’t the Hunger Games every year, I think we all could have been friends, don’t you? We’re not the ugly ones. We’re not the murderers. They are.”

“Sansa,” he interjected before she could say another word. She was moving into extraordinarily dangerous territory, so dangerous he was surprised the President hadn’t immediately called for her death. If Viserys Targaryen wanted her dead at that moment, he knew there were a hundred different ways the gamemakers could make it happen. But it seemed the petulant young President had more patience than Willas had ever thought to give him credit for. Or perhaps it was Master Baelish’s carefully crafted words that were keeping him from pulling the trigger just yet. But even if that were the case, he knew it wouldn’t be long until they pushed Ramsay, Harry, and Catelyn in their direction in the hopes it would be Sansa’s traitor blood that spilled into the snow.

 

* * *

 

Theon didn’t know how Petyr managed to get his hands on a copy of the footage. The gamemakers had cut to a shot of Ramsay stalking the unlikely alliance’s footprints after Sansa Stark pointed out what everyone should have already realized— _They were the ones that put us here and forced us to kill each other._

Apparently, the girl had had more to say after that. _We’re not the murderers. They are._ “Did she do that on purpose?” Theon asked. “Does she even realize what she’s saying?”

“She knows exactly what she’s saying, and it’s brilliant,” Petyr whispered, eyes still fixed on the screen.

“Brilliant? It seems fucking idiotic to me. It’s a miracle she’s still alive. She must know talk like that can get her killed before she can blink. Didn’t you teach the girl anything about self-preservation?” 

“It wasn’t idiotic. It was a calculated risk,” Petyr countered, waving Theon off. “She knows the time is nearing, and she’s preparing for her role as the face of the rebellion. They’ll all remember her now, the girl who dared call out the Capital on their sadism in the middle of the arena. It was easy enough to convince the President to hold off and wait for Ramsay Bolton to put an end to her, and she knew that. She _trusts_ me. She’s perfect."

There was a half empty bottle of wine resting on the table by Petyr’s chair. If it had been full, Theon thought he might not be talking so openly about the Stark girl. “It was certainly brave,” he conceded. “But what was she doing with her hand?”

“The Northern District was the second district to rebel after the Storm District,” Petyr began. “When Eddard Stark and his followers were preparing to rise up, they didn’t know whom they could trust. They developed a signal to recognize fellow rebels, and Sansa Stark just made that signal for the entire continent to see.”

Theon felt his eyes bulge. “The—the thing with her hand? That was a rebellion symbol? Did the President—?”

“No, of course not, the boy is a complete moron,” Petyr spat. “Even if he wasn’t, I still doubt he’d know what it meant. If not for Catelyn, I wouldn’t recognize it myself. But the men and women who followed Ned Stark into war against the Targaryens and their children, they will sure as hell recognize it. She’s asking them to rise up, Greyjoy. She’s warning them of what’s to come using the very platform the President is trying to use to destroy her.”

Since Petyr first divulged that Sansa Stark would be the face of the coming rebellion, Theon has doubted the girl was cut out for such a position. She was more compassionate than logical and more delicate than fierce, taking needless, imprudent risks because she thought it the _right_ thing to do. War was not that easy. Sacrifices would need to be made and rules bent in order for them to triumph. His mind had not changed on that matter, but he felt a newfound respect for the sweet, redheaded girl begin to wash over him. It was not uncommon for bravery to walk hand-in-hand with stupidity, but this seemingly stupid act might have been the best move in the game so far.

“How are you going to save her?” Ramsay was growing closer and closer to them with every passing moment, as were Harry and Catelyn. Now that she had thoroughly pissed off the President, he wasn’t sure how Sansa and her battered allies could possibly survive the looming battle. When Petyr didn’t answer right away, Theon considered that the Master might not be planning on rescuing his tribute at all. “Or will you use her as a martyr? After that speech, after covering fallen tributes’ bodies with her own blanket and rescuing Brienne and granting Devan mercy, they will sure as hell fight in her name if she dies. Maybe they’d follow the brother—”

“Will you shut up about the godsforsaken brother?” Petyr hissed, grabbing the front of Theon’s collar roughly, so roughly that Theon nearly toppled on to him. “I’m not going to let her die in there. She will be a leader, not a martyr, understand? And if you can’t accept that then maybe I won’t take you with us.”

The thought of being left behind in the Capital while a war raged outside the walls without him was enough to cow him. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was only worried because she just drew an even bigger target on her back, which I didn’t even think was possible.”

“She knows that, and I know that,” he said, shoving Theon away from him. It was disconcerting to see Petyr’s usual composure vanish. It was happening far too often these days for Theon’s comfort. Petyr Baelish was a dangerously rational man, but everyone had blind spots, and Theon suspected the Stark girl might be his. “The Resistance arrives tomorrow to free her. We just need to strike before Bolton reaches her. Are you prepared for a war, Greyjoy?”

He was sure he had never been more prepared for anything in his entire life. If he died for this rebellion, it would be worth it to be a free man, even if only for a few weeks. “I’m ready,” he declared. “What do you need me to do?”

“Keep your head low,” Petyr instructed, as he grabbed his bottle of wine and snapped the television off. “And get out of my apartment.” With that final order, he slammed the door of his bedroom shut and left Theon standing in the living room alone.

After a few minutes, he reached for the remote and turned the television back on with the volume on low. Covered in dirt and dried blood with her copper hair matted and coming free from its braid, Sansa Stark was still a beauty. _If there weren’t Districts, if there weren’t the Hunger Games every year, I think we all could have been friends, don’t you?_ He had wondered before if that was the truth of things. He had wondered if in another life he would have been friends with the girl’s scarred, haunted-looking brother.

He pushed the forward button to see what else the girl had to say and was startled when the footage skipped. Suddenly, it was Catelyn Tully’s face rather than Sansa Stark’s that filled the screen. A boy with sharp, gray-green eyes who could have been no one but a young Petyr Baelish was kneeling before her with a familiar silver mockingbird pin resting in his upturned hands. _He doesn’t know you like I do, Cat. He’ll never love you the way I do. No one will ever love you the way I do._

He watched on, fascinated, as Catelyn accepted the pin but turned down Petyr’s plea for her to be his wife instead of Eddard Stark’s. Baelish looked so unlike the man Theon had come to know in that moment, shattered and pathetic and weak. The sight left him even more nervous over what was to come. If Petyr had come to view this girl, Catelyn Tully’s beautiful daughter, as his redemption, as his second chance, there was no telling what lengths he would go to or what risks he would take to keep her alive. _It’s going to cloud his judgment_ , he thought. _Sooner or later, this will come back to haunt him, and he’ll make the wrong move._ Theon just prayed that day wouldn’t be tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

A fresh snow had fallen the night before while Arya tossed and turned in her bed, agonizing over whether she had made the right decision to get involved with the Kindly Man and the Order. Her target’s face kept flashing across her mind’s eye. Every time she imagined those sad eyes staring back at her, she felt sick to her stomach. The snow eased some of that pain though. She loved staring out the windows at a new snow and admiring the pristine beauty of it, the impossible whiteness that stretched on for miles and miles out here in the Wild North.

“What are you looking at?”

Arya glanced over her shoulder to find Gendry smiling up at her. She hated the flips and twists that damned smile always seemed to make her stomach perform. He smiled at her entirely too often, and she had no time to worry over what it meant, not when she was set to leave for the Capital only hours from now. It occurred to her that she ought to send him away, but she also realized this very well could be the last time she ever saw him, so she answered, “The snow. I love the way it looks before it’s been touched.”

“I had never seen snow before I came here, to the edge of the world.”

That struck Arya as incredibly sad. There were rumors Capital engineers had discovered a way to control the climate of the Crownlands so that the weather was nearly always perfect, always the same. Arya thought she might go mad in such a place. She loved the unpredictability of the weather in the Northern District. Some days the sun would shine down and warm her skin, some days the rain would fall in angry torrents around them, flooding the gardens and hot pools, and some days the winds of winter would tear through their clothes and leave them trapped inside their homes for days. But some of her favorite memories came from those winter storms, when she and her siblings were trapped inside while the snow piled higher and higher outside the door. Mother would make them hot chocolate, and Father would let them all sit in front of the fireplace in his study, and Old Nan would tell them all sorts of stories—love stories for Sansa, scary stories for her and Bran, stories of great heroes for Robb and Jon.

“It’s a good thing you came out here then,” she sighed, before lowering herself back down to the ground. “There’s nothing lovelier than the way freshly fallen snow looks when the sun is rising.” _Gods, that sounds like something stupid and romantic Sansa would say._ She shook her head and wished she didn’t turn into such a fool whenever she was around him.

“Are you all right? You look—I don’t know.”

She was sure she looked awful. Sansa had powders and creams to cover up the dark shadows that formed under one’s eyes after sleepless nights, but Arya had never bothered to learn how to use them. She rubbed her eyes and thanked the gods for the poor lighting in the underground room. “I’m fine. But there’s something I wanted to tell you,” she said. “But if I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone else. I haven’t even told Jon yet. And I don’t want him hearing about it from anyone but me.”

“You can trust me,” he assured her without hesitation. His dark blue eyes locked on hers, and she was shocked to find she actually believed him. Of all the people she could have chosen to confide this secret in, it seemed she would choose the burly, sarcastic Crownlander aircraft mechanic.

“This is my last day in the Resistance compound, for a while at least,” she confessed, before she could talk herself out of telling him. She needed him to know she was leaving. She needed him to know because she needed to say goodbye. “The Order has offered me a mission, and I’ve agreed to carry it out. It involves me staying behind in the Capital when the rest of you leave.”

Gendry’s smile, the one she had grown so accustomed to over the last few weeks, faded into a frown. “For how long?”

“For however long it takes,” she said, shrugging. “I honestly don’t know. He said I would know when the time was right to carry out my mission. But even after I complete it, I’m not sure how I’ll get out of the Capital, not until the Resistance takes it over.”

“What is the mission exactly?” He asked the question slowly, as if afraid he might spook her if he spoke too quickly.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Arya—”

“Gendry, I _can’t_ tell you that. I’m sorry.”

Gendry nodded and rubbed at the scruff on his neck. “Are you sure about this, Arya? Are you sure it’s what you want to be doing?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she snapped, perhaps a little too forcefully to be convincing. “The Order wants to win this war just as much as we do, maybe even more than we do. What I’m doing for them is important, and I want to do it. Why would you even ask that?”

“Because you haven’t told your brother yet. Why haven’t you told Jon?”

It was unlike her to hold something back from Jon. For as long as she could remember, her half-brother had been her closest companion and fiercest supporter. Jon never tried to convince her to wear dresses like Mother or mocked her messy hair like Sansa or questioned her choice to learn how to use a sword instead of a more elegant weapon like Father and Robb. Jon had always understood her, even when she worried no one else did. Perhaps that was why she was keeping this from him. Perhaps it was the fear that she had finally done something Jon wouldn’t understand that kept her silent.

“I’m worried Jon will tell me not to go.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Though Jon had never tried to make decisions for her, she was sure he would plead with her to reconsider and stay by his side instead of throwing herself into the dragon’s mouth.

“And what if _I_ asked you not to go?”

 _I would go anyways._ Nothing was going to stand in the way of her and her vengeance, not even Gendry Waters and his beautiful blue eyes. “Don’t ask me.”

“I won’t,” Gendry sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. It had been a long time since he trimmed it, and it had grown so long it nearly touched his shoulders. Sometimes Arya caught herself wondering what it might feel like to run her fingers through it, to fist it in her hands and pull his face down to hers. “I wouldn’t ask you, Arya. If you decided to do this, I’m sure you have your reasons."

“I do have my reasons,” she said. “It’s all I want. I finally have a way to make a difference in this war, but—” She cut herself off, surprised she even considered voicing the next words. It was one thing to think them; it was another to say them out loud.

“But what?”

“But nothing,” she snapped, looking down at her scuffed boots. “Forget it.”

“But it doesn’t feel right, does it? That’s what you were going to say.”

When she looked back up, she nearly gasped at how close he had moved toward her. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the soap he used during his morning shower, and count the freckles on his nose. _Yes, that’s what I was going to say._ She refused to confirm it, but it was clear he knew. For the first time, she thought she might have found someone else who understood her as Jon did, someone who might just want her exactly the way she was.

“Maybe it doesn’t feel right because you should want other things too,” he continued when she stayed silent.

“Like what?” she challenged. “What else should I want?”

His only answer was to lean his face in closer to hers. The warmth of his breath washed over her lips. The feeling sent a shiver down her spine and an eruption of goose prickles across her skin. She had only ever kissed one other boy before and only because Jeyne Poole had been teasing her that no boy would ever want to kiss her. It had been awkward and brief, but Arya thought it might be different with Gendry.

“What else should I want?” she asked again, staring up into his eyes. She had expected him to kiss her then, to _show_ her what she should want, but he remained stubbornly still and silent. At first, she worried she had misunderstood his smiles and the way he looked her. It took her another few moments to realize that he was waiting for _her_ to close the distance between them. Arya hated not being in control. She hated not knowing the entire the story, she hated not be able to protect her family, and she hated not being able to make her own choices. Arya needed to be in control, and Gendry was waiting for her to take what she needed, because he understood.

She crashed her lips against his. It was a frenzied embrace with too much tongue and teeth clacking against teeth, but none of that mattered when his large, callused hands slipped under her t-shirt, feeling rough and impossibly hot against her skin.

“Take this off,” she demanded against his lips, pulling at his shirt. She had spent enough sleepless nights imagining what the muscles his t-shirts clung to looked like to wait another moment. “Take it off. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, as he dragged his lips down the length of her neck, his tongue pushing against her pulse. He pulled up the hem of his shirt slowly, too slowly, until Arya took matters into her own hands and tossed the offending fabric to the corner of the room. What her eyes found when she pulled it away from him was better than anything she had dreamed. _Powerful_ was the word that first came to her mind. He was built like a bull with his thick arms and impossibly broad shoulders. He could have tossed her across the room on to the bed if he wanted to, but she knew he wouldn’t. She knew he would wait for her to lead him there, for her to tell him what him to, and there was something incredibly arousing about that.

The smoothness of his skin and the coarse feel of the dark hair that covered his chest made for a pleasant contrast under her palms. His hand were flexing by his sides. She could tell he was desperate to touch her, but he remained unmoving as she leisurely mapped his body with her fingertips. When she satisfied, she backed away from him just slightly and lifted her own shirt. Her heart raced when she bent her arms back and pushed the clasp of her plain black bra free, letting it fall to her feet.

The way his eyes widened, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world made her feel as powerful as he looked. Her breasts were small, her face was long and without makeup, and her hair an absolute mess, but he didn’t look disappointed. In fact, he looked like he was barely managing to restrain himself from pouncing on her.

She took a cautious step forward and grabbed one of his large hands. When she placed it over her breast, he groaned and buried his face in the crook of her neck. As his thumb drew small circles around her nipple, her back arched and her stomach pressed against the hardness in his jeans. _He wants me. He wants me as much as I want him._ It was a heady feeling, and she realized how easy it would be to get lost inside someone like Gendry.

She pushed him back until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He let her press him back against the mattress, as she straddled his hips. He was toying with the buttons of her pants, but she didn’t want that just yet. She leaned forward and kissed him deep and slow. She wanted to savor this. When she took a different name and a different face and pretended to be one of the very people she had despised her entire life, she wanted this moment to be her anchor, a memory that belonged only to Arya Stark.

When she pulled her lips away from his to trail kisses across his collarbone, he pulled her down against his body and whispered, “Promise me you’ll come back. Promise me this won’t be the last time.”

 _That’s not a promise I can make._ Part of her wished she could let go of her anger and surrender to her feelings for this man. But if she didn’t do everything in her power to destroy the people who had robbed her of her father and mother, who had forced her sweet sister to kill, who had carved _traitor_ into her brother’s handsome face, she knew she would end up loathing herself as much as she loathed them.

She made no promises, only kissed him again and tugged at his hair. There were no more words between them after that. They didn’t need words to say goodbye.


End file.
